Silhouettes
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Following his staged death, Sherlock hides away in the Sussex countryside. Bored, alone, he's turned into something of a recluse, keeping to his rented cottage. But someone is determined to coax the mysterious silhouette who has taken up residence in their sleepy village out of his shell. SxOC
1. Chapter 1

**Silhouettes Chapter 1**

**Fandom: Sherlock**

**Rating : T**

**DISCLAIMER: Sherlock isn't mine. Sadly.**

**A few things to note:** This takes place between the end of series two and start of series three, when I imagine Sherlock is hiding out. In my head canon, he's in the Sussex countryside, near the beaches, painfully bored.

It's been a fair while since I've published, so please bear with me.

**-XXX-**

A deep voice, dripping with distain and pride, beckons me inside. The note of annoyance isn't hidden in the least. Taking the hint, I enter, then remain, hesitant, just inside the threshold, waiting to be addressed.

"Ah. You must be the housekeeper." The silhouette by the window doesn't look up from his violin. Though no music comes from the strings, he caresses the instrument, musing gently.

Taken aback, I hesitate before shutting the cottage door behind me. It takes a moment – old building, old door, it's warped to not-quite-fit into the threshold with ease. After my brief struggle I turn back to the silhouette. The overcast light coming in from the small square window isn't enough to illuminate many features, especially with his back turned. The fire, just to the left, doesn't provide much more to be discerned.

I am in the presence of a half-man.

Lots come to our cottages. Half-people. Folks in mourning. Those who have been lost, somehow. While our typical customers are families on holiday or professors taking research sabbaticals, the shadows find our cozy little country cottages appealing. The hills and the sea seem to be peaceful – I wouldn't go so far as to say "healing," but certainly secluded enough to encourage relaxation.

We stay out of their business, for the most part. It isn't our part to socialize. We clean, maintain, pick up the rent, and occasionally make deliveries – just as I am today.

"No, actually," I correct lightly.

The silhouette half-turns. If he'd been a cat, his ears would have been pricked and at the ready. "No?"

From what I can see of his eyes, they narrow. A few seconds pass of evaluation. "Landlord's daughter," he says shortly, turning back to his violin.

Impressed, I move further into the cottage, stopping just before the edge of the carpet. "Right."

"Landlord's daughter…" he repeats slowly, fingers dancing along the neck of the instrument, stopping to fiddle with the pegs briefly. "Home from university for the summer. Studies some kind of a fine art, likely literature, and history. Plays piano, and a few other instruments, if the state of your fingers is any indication. Just turned twenty last month. Lives in your own house, away from your parents, manages upkeep of the business when they're on holiday. One of those little tasks you take upon yourself is to make rounds on all of the cottages, while walking your – " Here he sniffs. " – Labrador. Brown Labrador, a docile creature, he doesn't tend to jump much, but he is quite a fan of leaning against your right leg, he leaves quite a lot of hair behind. You walk him very often, 'round the hills I'd say, looking at those boots. Yet, you usually do not grace tenants with your presence, perhaps offering little more than a wave as you pass, as you don't consider them to be particularly warm people worth you or your dog's time, which makes it curious that you would choose to…make this intrusion."

"I did knock."

"I would conclude," he continues. "That word of my unusual…abilities…have reached the village, and you, being a rather curious person by nature, besides bored out of your mind by those on holiday and the town's natives, decided to poke into this mysterious character."

"You'd be right," I say breezily. "Except I'm not too terribly bored, and I've not heard a thing about you, Mr. Holly. There is only speculation on a man no one knows anything about. But that's not why I'm here." Stepping closer, I dig into my cardigan pocket. The dusty rose pink woolly thing has fantastic pockets, deep and secure for storing things. I removed a small bundle of letters.

They're simple, boring envelops. Plain, starched white paper – just the kind you buy by the hundreds from the stationary store, no seal or printed return address. The address is written in a neat and slightly-curly hand. A woman's, maybe. A red Machin stamp, marked by black ink, sits on the top right corner.

Tucking the bundle against my wrist, I balance my weight between knees, considering. "I came because this oh-so mysterious-tenant who fails to ever check his mail. And my father asked that I deliver them, and remind you that the post is delivered every day except Sunday."

The silhouette pauses. Slowly, he turns away from a window.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, as the boldest of the light is coming from behind him. Soon enough, though, I can make out distinct features.

To my great surprise, he is young. Older than me, but still considerably youthful. Probably not much older than 30 or so. Cutting cheeks, thin lips, dark, curling hair that falls floppishly around the pale and drawn face. Crystal-coloured eyes flash. They're incredible. Soap-opera-worthy intense. In seconds he sizes me up in return, gaze flickering over my form, lingering on my shoes and the hand holding the letters. I'm a little taken aback. The spell is broken, however, as he lowers the violin, and blinks those deadly eyes.

"Mail?" he utters lowly.

"Yeah." I offer forth the bundle. He snatches it, drops the violin on the nearest table, turning towards the fire. The twine is rolled off, discarded into the flames. From the mantle, Mr. Holly takes up a letter opener – dagger-like, thin, silver – and savagely slices open the first envelope. One letter is read, then another, and another, and I assume so on. I realize that, while I haven't been dismissed, it's probably time to go. Quietly, I make to leave, only to be halted by the deep voice of the cottage's tenant.

"You needn't leave so soon."

Mouth open, I look back. "Oh, well I thought…you might want to…."

He waves in a _"Oh, do what you will" _kind of way, not looking up from the paper. The light cast through by the fire suggests more feminine handwriting, though I can't make out any specific words.

Taking this as the closest thing to an invitation I'm likely to receive, I cross to tentatively sink into one of the overstuffed winged armchairs. They're of a brownish plaid, almost tweedy, and ancient. I suspect them to be of the cottage's own furnishings. My father doesn't exactly have an eye for interior design.

All of the cottages have a dated look to them, despite my dad's best attempts at a simple, old-country English feel. They're not so bad. I have been in all of them twelve at some point to clean or paint or garden. Tenants can bring in their own furniture, but most find it convenient to use ours, the functional and old-fashioned. Looking around, I would guess Holly did exactly that. The front room is rather barren, aside from stacks of books and piles of papers scattered throughout. I scan the room. It's a conjoined to the kitchen, which is a more cramped affair. The front room acts as parlor, a round and cozy space built of native white stone. All original wood floors, covered by less-than-original and inexpensive mall rugs. A stone fireplace dominates the back wall. Overall, it's a comfortable sort of place, great for a small family on holiday.

Or, apparently, mysterious individuals with "unusual abilities."

He tosses the papers upon the mantle, brooding into the flame. I rearrange myself, adjusting the throw pillow behind me. In my scan of the room, I had discovered a yellowed skull resting upon the left of the mantle place, next to where Mr. Holly now rests his elbow. A few teeth are missing and the bridge of the nose chipped, as though someone smashed upwards, trying to break the poor bloke's face. I stare at this while I speak.

"It's funny that someone on holiday, so far from home, wouldn't check the post more often," I say casually. "You must have very low expectations of your friends and family. Or, at the very least, whatever companies might have bills for you."

"Yes, curious, isn't it?" Mr. Holly doesn't even spare me a glance. The orange light of the fire highlights his sharp features. His expression is something akin to grim.

"Definitely." Elbows on my knees, I let my chin rest on folded hands. "You know, we haven't really been introduced."

He snorts. "Viola Carters. You go to school in Devon. Father's pride and joy. When checking in, any guest caught looking at the photo he has prominently displayed upon his desk will soon be assaulted with tales of your academic victories."

If I blushed, I'd be fighting off urges right now. "That sounds like Dad," I sigh.

"Which is why it's startling to find that you resent him."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Mr. Holly turns sharply. He takes the seat across from me, folding long limbs into the chair, eyes glistening. Leaning forward, he examines me. "Malice. You exhaled briefly at the mention of your dear papa, exhaled with frustration. He annoys you."

"Doesn't everyone's father annoy them?"

Another snort. "Fair enough." Even so, he tilts his head. "But yours virtually worships you. You practically have to beg to be allowed to work here. Why?"

"Why do you care?"

"Indulge me. I've been cooped up for sometime, allow a man his…deductions."

I raise a brow. "Then deduce."

He hisses lightly, but not out of any kind of dislike. Rather, he's encouraged. Without any pause, he launches into an ambling observation. "Class ring, left hand, it's turned so that your last name, not your first, is in your eyeline. That suggests some kind of disgust or dislike of your family name, family legacy. And, judging from the smudges and caked on makeup from that side, likely from touching your face, you've worn it like that for some time, since you got it, probably. It's an intentional way you put the ring one, so as to see your name. You've not been a fan for sometime. Family name comes from your father, your father who has lived in Sussex his entire life. You're going to school across the country, ages away, coming home only on holiday. He openly mourns that loss, and I distinctly recall a welcoming party a fortnight ago to celebrate your long-awaited return. You've been desperate to get away, hence the selection of university league away. It's probably why you worked so hard to complete your A-Levels within two years. From this, I would believe that your father's love of the county and desire for you to stay within the community has given you a feeling of being trapped for sometime now. This has blossomed into resentment, and is why you go on so many walks with your dog. Especially at late hours."

"It's midday," I interject.

"Yes, but I've seen you out on the hills far past the witching hour."

"That's not a tad creepy."

Holly smiles. It's the first time since I've entered the cottage, and I am stunned by the change. Despite the smallness of the smile, his features soften remarkably. The sharpness decreases. He's not approachable, by any means, but at least a little more…human. Less of a silhouette.

"It isn't my fault your flashlight is noticeable. So, did I get it right?"

"Pretty much spot-on," I admit. "Impressive. Is this your 'unusual ability?'"

Straightening his collar, the tenant contends that yes, his neat little deduction trick is that ability.

"You still haven't told me your name."

"I haven't?" he replies archly. "Surely you've checked your registration logs? The address on my letters?"

I purse my lips, restraining a smile. "You know they were simply addressed 'B Holly.' There is no fun in that. I prefer proper introductions."

"I do nothing proper."

It's warning, but not one I take seriously.

"Benjamin Arthur Holly."

Inclining my head, I accept this. "Thank you, Mr. Holly." I start to rise. "You can pick up any further correspondence at our offices. I assume you recall the house where you were checked in?"

He's not really registering what I am saying, though. Instead, Holly's gaze has turned back to the fire. "You do deliveries, yes? Groceries and such?"

"Um…." Confused, I hesitate before answering. "Yes, for a small fee. None of the grocer's in the area do, or the restaurants. The hardware store might…." I drift off.

Holly nods shortly. "Very well." Reaching into his dressing gown pocket, he removes a checkbook. "I've been here three weeks and have yet to find time to visit the grocer's. If you can purchase me some general food items, I will compensate you appropriately."

I stare. "You want me to shop for you?"

"Yes." He's found a pen someplace, and it filling a check out.

"But, aren't you worried that I'll – I mean, can't you –"

"No," Holly says shortly. Tearing out the check, he brandishes it. "This ought to be enough for a few week's food, and some for your compensation."

I glance at the number. "It's more than enough."

"I've already written the check."

"Write another."

"Oh, just take it."

"It's too much."

"You're wasting my time."

"What has kept you so busy that you can't walk to the grocer's? Seems to me you're do little more than playing violin and generally making a mess."

Unperturbed, Holly inches the check just a bit closer. Gods, he's got unnaturally long arms. I'm at the edge of the carpet, at least eight feet away, and I'd have to lean forward only a few feet to reach the slip of paper. "Ms. Carters. It's fair."

Sighing heavily. Taking a few steps forward, I snag the check. "Okay. I'll see you – "

"Thursday." The day after tomorrow.

"Okay."

He stands again, passing by the side table to take up the instrument again. Resuming his position by the window, the silhouette of a man begins turning pegs and plucking strings.

Taking this as my dismissal, I tuck the check into my pocket and head for the door.

"Thursday," he calls back briefly.

"Thursday," I agree.

**-XXX-**

"Did you manage to get Holly his mail?" my father asks when I return home. Hugo, who has followed me indoors, paces around the kitchen before settling with a groan into his pillowy bed in the corner, next to the old stove.

"Yes. He was in." I cross to the fridge, pulling out the orange juice carton. Dad, who sits at the island bar, sips his tea from behind his paper pensively.

"That's a surprise. I swear, it seems like the bloke is never in. The place is a tomb."

"Oh?" I lean against the counter, tapping my glass against my teeth. "I would say he never leaves."

Dad grunts. "Perhaps. You were gone some time, Viola, did you manage to open him up?"

"Uh, yeah, a fair bit. He's a nice man. Asked me to pick up some groceries for him."

My father is surprised. "Oh? I'd wondered. Marge said he'd not been by the store. I'd thought he'd have them delivered, perhaps, before now. Been here nearly a month, hasn't he?"

I shrug. "He must've brought in quite a stock. I'm supposed to deliver Thursday. I'll drive out to the store early."

Dad has turned back to his paper. "Nice of you. He's paying, right?"

"Of course."

There is a pause as we occupy ourselves with our beverages.

"So," I start abruptly. "I've been looking into that exchange program. For NYU. Their coordinator gave me a call, and it sounds really positive, a good chance I can get in and get some great scholarships. If I auditioned with a piano recital I could get even more."

The paper is adjusted, making a quick snapping noise. Dad doesn't even look up. Though he is frowning.

"I don't know about that, Vi," he says quietly. "New York is a little far. I reckon you'd be a mite homesick, eh?"

"No," I reply firmly. "I mean, I might be at first. But I'll adjust. It's a great opportunity," I add.

A sigh. "You like it in Devon well enough. Isn't that plenty far? I know you want to get away from your old man, but…." He gives me a lopsided smile. "New York?"

"Yeah," I say eagerly, setting my orange juice down, coming forward to lean against the island. "New York City. Oh, I'd get a job and come home over summers. Dad, it's all I've ever wanted."

He doesn't look happy. "I'll think about it. Maybe not this fall, but…maybe this winter. We'll have to discuss it. But not right now." The paper is folded. "I've got to go check out the Murphys. They're on their way back to Cardiff for the summer. And poor Mrs. Murphy broke her ankle last weekend…." He tuts, then continues his rambling. I sigh, sink against the counter once again, and finish my orange juice.

"Oh, that's a pity." He's still looking into his paper. "They're still not sure who killed the McLarney girl. The last suspect didn't turn out."

Over a year and a half ago a dead tourist from up North was found on our beach. The case has run stale since then, the gossip dry, but the papers still haven't dropped the matter. _"Who could do such a monstrous thing?" _the journalist crow.

Last month a new suspect came into the police's spotlight. But apparently it'd been a dead end. No other leads have be coming in, according to the _Post. _

"Yeah, that's a pity," I agree, thinking that if I were to be found dead as a doornail on anyone's beach, I'd not wish to be found here.

**-XXX-**

**How awesome am I? So awesome I did research on the current stamps being sold by Royal Mail. Along with the genealogy behind the Holmes name. Apparently it derives from something medieval meaning "lives by a holly tree." **

**I know, I know, another OC. But I don't like Molly and Irene is terrifyingly beautiful and impossible to imagine capturing, and this isn't really about romance anyways.**

**So…yeah. Read and review?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Silhouettes, Chapter 2**

**Great response, thanks guys! I really appreciate the feedback. **

**-XXX-**

On Thursday I arrive at the grocer's at 8 a.m. sharp. Marge, the checker, gives me a curious glance as I slip inside. I've cashed the check and the pound bills are folded neatly in my wallet. Wandering the florescent-lit aisles with the squeaking cart, I realize that Holly has given me little instruction as to what, precisely, he eats. So, I resolve to buy a load of generic, easy-to-cook things. Not that I believe this to be typical of all males, but he is alone and distracted – microwave dinners and frozen pizzas might not go amiss.

Some bread, a few sandwich things, some eggs, bacon, a few fruits and vegetables, potatoes, cereal, milk, canned soup, a few bags of pasta, a few tins of sauce, cheese….I bought enough food to last a single man two weeks (though, looking at Benjamin Holly, it might be more like a month, the fellow is a _stick_). Marge eyes me suspiciously as I cue up for the check out. I am clearly not buying for myself and my father, and it's exceedingly rare that customers ask us to shop for them. My head high, I make the purchase.

"You're not buying for your father, are you Viola-dearie?" she asks, tapping thick pink acrylic nails against the register keys.

"No, uh, a tenant."

"Oh?" She pauses. I can see her practically inhaling the scent of gossip. My family's business has long been one of the only sources of news and interest in the county. Our customers are often speculated upon, teased, even, by locals. Marge is, I know, one of the biggest gatherers of such tidbits.

I turn my attention to the display of bubblegum perched just to the left of the check-out counter as she continues to swipe my goods.

"You don't typically shop for any of them," she remarks, poking for more information.

"No, we usually don't," I agree.

"Who is it? Someone new? Most all of them I know, nowadays. 'Specially the regulars, like the Murphys. Have you heard of poor Mrs. Murphy's ankle? Bless her, broken them out on the cliffs, she did…."

"Yes, a real pity." I've moved on to the magazines. "Did you read last's week's edition?" I nod to the graying copies of _The Post_ sitting in the stand. "About Susan McLarney?"

"Yes, yes, poor dear. I mean, it's quite dramatic, you know, to think them murder could be living among us. I mean, who would've have wanted to kill the girl? A tourist! It's a shame."

"Yeah."

Marge is not deterred. "So, who would these be for?"

"Oh, someone new," I say vaguely.

She thinks for a moment, pausing from typing in the code on a bag of apples, her plastic fingernails midair. "Wouldn't be that Mr. Hollaway, would it?"

"Holly," I correct.

"Ah." Eyes alight, she asks, casually, "It is for him, iddinit? He never comes in here. I dare say, he never comes into town at all. If I didn't know, I'd say he goes all the way cross the county to Elaine's shop, but she's not seen any Holly. Very mysterious. No one knows a thing about him, and he's not particularly friendly. Why, you know Witmore, from Leeds? Staying in your Northernmost cabin? He went walking the other day, came across the fellow, and all friendly-like tried to ask him a few thing about himself. Well, Holly straight-away told him he wasn't here to make acquaintances, and then went on to tell Witmore that if he didn't use a walking stick and wear those braces Mrs. Witmore bought him, that he'd soon be in for a knee replacement. 'Oy,' Witmore says, completely aghast. 'You my doctor?' 'No, sir,' says Holly, all smary. 'But anyone with an eye could see that your knees are about to give way. Years of climbing and racing, I'm sure, but do take your wife's advice.' Poor Witmore was furious. Came in here, thrashing all about."

"Has that been the only time anyone has seen him?"

"Mmmm? Oh, no, Carberry saw him 'round the cemetery last week, the little one behind the church. He was just walking. She offered him a tour of the church – one of the only things she can do, nowadays, poor old lark. But he kindly told her no, and went about his way, but not before asking a few questions about the cemetery. Well, she didn't know much, but she told him the age and what not, bit of history. Aside from that, I don't think anyone has seen him, at least not much. He's a funny man, it seems. And very tall."

"Yes," I say. "Is this any good?" I nod to a brand of gum.

"Oh, it's a little stale." She clicks in another code. "Well, that will be 46.29."

I count out the bills. Marge hands me the receipt.

"You tell that man that he's got no reason to be shy 'round us," she advises.

"Some people come to be alone, you know," I tell her. "I think he just wants to be alone. Secluded. Nothing wrong with that."

She sniffs. "Well, it couldn't hurt for him to know. We won't bite."

"Thanks." I take up the bags. "Have a good day, Marge."

**-XXX-**

"I didn't sign up for this," I tell him as I fill the crisper. From the desk – which, I note, was originally house in the upstairs bedroom but has been now reinstated down in the parlor, causing me to wonder how he single-handedly brought it down those narrow stairs – Holly doesn't even bother to glance up.

"You didn't 'sign up' for anything, Ms. Carters. But it was kind of you to take it upon yourself to unpack my groceries," he allows.

"You said as soon as I walked in that if I didn't they'd be left to rot because you're too distracted to be bothered with it!"

"Yes, well," he murmurs, smirking slightly. "As I said. Exceedingly kind."

I roll my eyes heavily, pulling out a carton of eggs from the bottom of the bag. To my surprise, a carton already sits in the bottom right of the fridge. Suspicious, O check the date. _"Expired." _Unsurprised, I make to throw them away.

"Don't," Holly warns from behind his laptop.

"Why?" I demand. "They're bad, they will make you sick!"

"I need them," he says simply.

Eyes narrowed, I open the carton. "I don't know what's so special about a few expired –"

And I nearly drop the Styrofoam box with a loud squeal. I close it quickly, shoving it back into the refrigerator. For a few seconds I catch my breath and allow my heart to return to its normal pace. Once moderately recovered, I ask, "Eyes?"

Holly grunts.

"What…for?"

"Experiment," he says, as thought it were the most natural thing in the world, to keep eyeballs in your ice box

"They're not…human?"

"No, _Sus scrofa domestica_," he informs me shortly.

I blink. "Come again?"

He sighs heavily. "Pigs."

"Oh." Then, "Ew!"

Holly waves his hand carelessly. "Back to the left, if you please. And be careful not to drop or overturn them. It was not easy to procure them."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was no picnic pulling out those piggies' eyeballs," I murmur under my breath. He ignores me.

Once I've finished with the groceries, I stand aimlessly in the kitchen. My host takes no notice. After a few moments, I spot a teal kettle sitting beside the sink. Struck with an idea, I cross to the desk.

"Would you care for a cuppa?" I ask. He spares me a brief glance.

"I certainly wouldn't _mind _one."

My lips twist. "Good. Because I'm dying for a spot of tea. You're a terrible host for not offering."

"It's not exclusive to you," he assures me dully, turning back to the blue-white screen of his computer. "I never offer anyone tea. Though, on occasion, I might ask the housekeeper to bring up a tray."

"I am unsurprised by this, and I regret to inform you that our rental services do not include housekeeping or any kind of maid service," I reply lightly. "You hardly seem like the 'tea-time' type, Mr. Holly."

"I rarely enjoy someone enough to wish their presence for the duration of a tea."

"You flatterer."

He snorts. From the kitchen, I smile.

After filling the kettle, I scour the cabinets for mugs. I find a mismatched pair – one patterned with pink and blue flowers, the other a cool, slightly chipped green. I dig a white pot out from the pantry and fill the small silver straining ball I found among the forks and spoons in a cluttered drawer. Then I set about arranging a few biscuits on one of the china cake plates. Most of these dishes - and there is a scant number – are old. Second-hand, surely. Holly isn't old enough to be the original owner of dishes as aged as these. They're mismatched, too, as though they were all bought at different times and places, like flea markets and garage sales.

The kettle screams, and I hasten to fill the tea pot. Within a few minutes, I have the mugs balanced with the biscuits between my two hands. Steadily as possible, I set everything down upon the desk, jostling Holly slightly from his work. A quick trip back to kitchen, and I return with a carton of cream and the sugar bowl. I pull up one of the nearby armchairs, swinging it around to face the desk. A flash of irritation muddles Holly's brow. But it subsides, and he settles.

In silence, we sip. I stare out the window. Holly watches his computer screen with a furrowed brow. It's not an unsettling quite between us. On the contrary, it is companionable. I enjoy the clear ability to think – there is no need to create senseless babble or questions or feign interest in another's senseless babble. It's one thing I could definitely appreciate about Holly.

I clean up the tea things sometime later, then return to hover beside him. "I'm going to go…shall I leave the receipts? "

"No."

"Okay. Well, is there anything else you need?"

He pauses from scrolling down a page. "Laundry."

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"I've run out of socks and pants."

"So wash them."

There is a beat. Aghast, I gape. "You don't know how? You're a probably-thirty-something-year-old and you can't even wash your own socks?"

"My landlady used to do it for me," he states simply, without shame.

"Oh, I'd love to see the psychology behind that relationship." I snort. "I am not your landlady."

"You asked if there was anything I needed," he reminds me. "It's been a month, I've run out of towels."

"You've not done laundry since you've been here?" I am incredulous. "For nearly a month and you've yet to clean any of your clothes?"

He grunts, turning back to his computer screen. "I've been occupied."

"Oh, yes, I can see. Playing violin and otherwise causing a mess. How do you manage to live on your own?"

Mr. Holly doesn't answer. He continues fiddling with his plants. After a few minutes of silence, during which I stand with hands on my hips, I finally speak.

"You're really asking me to do this. You barely know me, and you'll let me wash your knickers?!"

"The housekeeper hasn't been 'round," he says mildly.

"Because _we haven't got at housekeeper!" _I shout. "It's not a part of our services. Neither is laundry!"

Holly just looks at me. After several second being under that bright gaze, I roll my eyes. I have no doubt that if I don't help him he'll turn to wearing bed sheets and bath towels.

"I will show you how to use the washer and dryer set. But that's it."

**-XXX-**

Naturally, I end up doing all of it myself – washing, drying, and folding. I even hang the delicates, like the nicer trousers and shirts. They'll need to be ironed later, but there is not way I am reaching ultimate housekeeper status by doing that.

I sit on the loveseat, folding socks and shirts, quietly contemplating my future. Once I've finished the pile, I carry the stack of freshly folded laundry to the stairs. About halfway up, I hear Mr. Holly shift and speak.

"You can call me Ben." The voice is muffled.

"Come again," I call, poking my head 'round the corner to hear down the stairs.

His throat is cleared, and he says again, "You _can _call me Ben."

I pause. Slowly, I move down the narrow stairs to take a seat. "Oh."

His brows rise. "Oh?"

"Well, yes, then. Ben. I suppose you ought to call me Viola."

"I rather like Carters."

I chuck a washcloth at him. Holly ducks, smirking.

**-XXX-**

**I choose Ben after our dear Benny, and Arthur after the esteemed author, and Holly is thought to be a translation of the name Holmes. **

**Reviews would be lovely! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Silhouettes Chapter 3**

**There wasn't as great of a response to chapter 2 as there was previously. I really appreciate reviews guys, so anything you'd be willing to throw at me would be great. They keep the creative juices flowin'! **

**Lately, I've been working on another multi-chapter Star Trek piece to balance me out a bit - working on one thing at a time can be boring - so it would appear I'm a little caught on Benny at the moment, haha.**

**-XXX-**

I begin appearing at his doorstep at random intervals without announcement. The bell is wrung, the door answered, host peering out with brows raised until he moves to let me pass indoors. Sometimes the dog accompanies me, always politely stepping through the threshold and curling up soundlessly by the fire. For the most part I make tea, read, maybe do a bit of cleaning, and occasionally converse with the still-mysterious, slightly-gaunt-but-getting-better Benjamin Holly. Basically all of the things I'd be doing at home. Except they're in his cottage.

It's an odd dynamic. Ben doesn't seem to mind – in fact, he's rather indifferent, though I suppose having someone around to do the washing and fix an egg sandwich or take out the trash occasionally pleases him well enough, as he doesn't tell me to go away. He rarely asks for anything except for tea, or perhaps for me to pass something or find this-or-that book. He is childlike in his laziness. I find it exasperating and simultaneously slightly endearing.

So far I've resolved to befriend and feed Mr. Holly. He's a slip of a creature, and not from lack of trying. His skinny form is all from skipping meals, I'm sure, and the maternal part of me is determined to see more meat on his gangly bones. In the process, I'm certain I can make a friend of this new tenant. At least, we're off to a good start.

**-XXX-**

Two weeks later I find myself again in Ben Holly's cottage, tucked into an armchair, browsing a book as he dissected some kind of plant-thing using tweezers and a scalpel. I feel rather bad for the next family who takes residence here, as the desk has been brutalized by Ben's "experiments" and "projects." Besides this, they'll never know what, exactly, has occupied that fridge.

"_Speaking of which…." _I glance at the clock on the mantle – a heavy pewter and walnut thing my father found at a flea market when I was eleven – and note that it's passed lunchtime.

"Are you hungry?"

A grunt.

"Some tea, then?"

A longer pause, then a more positive kind of grunt.

"I'll get the kettle."

Bustling about the kitchen, I find a box of biscuits and shake a few out onto a small plate. I lean against the counter and watch Ben strip away the outer stem of the flower. I've no clue what he's doing, but I don't dare ask, either. Especially considering I kind of invaded his space without permission. After my morning chores – answering calls, ordering the latest post into our guests' boxes, taking a few reservations, and setting an appointment with a plumber to check out one of our beach houses. Bored, I leashed Hugo and headed for the hills. Ben answered the door, brows raised, and without a word let me slip in. Hugo came with me, immediately settling by the desk, curling into a ball. Sitting down, Ben absent-mindedly patted my dog on the head. I took up a book.

When the kettle screams, I jump to fill the mugs. Spooning two scoops of sugar and a drop of cream into mine, I laden Ben's tea with a load of sugar, stirring quickly until the granules dissolve in the hot amber liquid. I set the biscuits and tea on the desk beside him. I get no thanks, but I'm fine without it.

For a while we're silent. I drain my tea. Turning to the window, I see clear skies and a wave of green hills. If I crane my neck I can just see a sliver of darker blue that is the ocean.

"We should go out."

"Why would I want to do that?" Ben's occupied with his magnifying glass, eyes narrowed and focusing on the veins of one leaf.

"It's a nice day."

"Hmmm."

"Have you even seen the countryside? We've got some beautiful hills and fields. And the beach…the cliffs too, they're grand. It's a pity if you haven't seen -"

"I've been out walking, yes. Why are you here?"

I close my book. "You're asking me now? I've been here nearly two hours, Ben."

He lowers the glass. "I didn't invite you."

"It's my house," I point out."

"Your father's, actually."

Scowling, I swing my head 'round the chair. "Let's not get technical. Come outside with me."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. "Viola, I'm currently disassembling a very rare and very fragile _Trollius laxus. _It really isn't the best time. And you're distracting me."

Feeling like a scolded child, I sigh, sinking into my chair. "Fine." Snapping my fingers, I rise. "Come along, Hugo."

We're almost to the door when Ben speaks again. "But you needn't _leave." _

Suppressing a smile, I stand by the door for a beat before turning back to drop into the armchair again. "Alright."

I'm not sure why I have taken to spending so much time at Ben's. Maybe it's 'cause he is "new." Or maybe it's because he is the only tenant we have at the moment anywhere near my age, and he's interesting and mysterious and a little fun, sometimes. He hasn't, as he pointed out, invited me or otherwise indicated he wanted or enjoyed my presence. But neither has he shunned me or asked me to go away.

**-XXX-**

The following day, Sunday, I've again taken to the hills with Hugo. He's bouncing beside me on his leash, trotting happily. We both love the fresh air and solitude. Perhaps, if we're not tired later, we might go to the beach for a few tosses of fetch. On Sundays the beach and walking paths are usually pretty vacant – everyone is having dinner with their family or visiting.

Almost as soon as I think this I catch sight of a large dark-ish shape moving up the hill towards us. We're taking a break at the top of one mount. I sit in the grass, with a content Hugo laying beside me, nipping at blades of grass that dare to blow in his face. Craning my neck, I attempt to identify the walker. From this distance they're a mere silhouette. It takes me a few minutes to recognize Ben. He's wearing a great black coat and lace-up boots, things completely foreign to me.

"It's approximately seventy degrees," I inform him by way of greeting.

Brows raised, he stops just before me. The _"And?" _is silent, but I reply anyways.

"A woolly coat is rather odd attire for such weather."

"I find myself chilled." He looks at me, eyes crystal. "Good day."

"Yes," I agree. "What are you doing out here? Looking for flowers?"

"Walking."

"Just walking?"

"Perhaps," he allows, "I am getting a better feel for the spectacular glories of this countryside as you preached to me yesterday."

"I did not preach!"

Ben smirks. "But, alas, I am unimpressed. So, you've got some hills and a few white cliffs. I have not been struck by any particular epiphanies by this Sussex beauty."

"I promised no such epiphanies. Besides, you're clearly not going to the right places."

"Then indulge me," he says smoothly.

Surprised, I duck my head, fiddling with a few strands of grass. Plucking one clover, I spin it between my fingers, thinking. Besides me, Hugo stretches. He yawns, curling closer to me.

"Why the sudden interest?" I ask the clover.

"You intrigued me."

Somehow, I feel that he isn't just referring to the landscape. Frowning at the flower between my fingers, I consider.

"Pouting is not attractive, Viola."

"I am not pouting!" I cry, shooting up. To my surprise, he's moved closer, so that when I stand, we are nearly toe-to-toe. I reach his throat, my eyes level with the collar of his coat. Slowly, my eyes roll up to meet his. His are amused.

"Will you walk with me?"

"Yes." I wiggle my fingers at Hugo. The dog stretches again, then steadily climbs to his paws. "I hope you're ready for a lot of walking."

**-XXX-**

"The paths have been here forever. I don't know when they were made. People still use them for the scenic walks, mostly the tourists. These were the first places Dad would let me go off to walk alone, when I was a kid. I couldn't go to the beaches, but here was fine."

"He wouldn't let you go down to the beach?"

I tilt my head, looking at him. "Um. When you're a kid hanging around by large bodies of water, unattended by adults, isn't considered 'safe.'"

He doesn't respond to this. Hands held behind his back, Ben stare forward, expression impassive.

"When did you start working for your father?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "When your parent owns their own business, you sort of always work for them. I've been taking calls and sorting mail and delivering since I could read."

"So, your father has been in this business for some time. That must have been a handful."

We've owned the rentals for over fifteen years. He'd inherited the land and the house from my great aunt Harriet when I was four. We'd initially had another person, a groundskeeper of sorts, who looked after the maintenance things, but he'd left less than a year in. Dad really struggled, in those first years. I took to walking home from school because he'd forget to pick me up so often. "Ah, yeah," I say fairly. "But he did the best he could."

"Yet you still seek to get away," he remarks.

"Well. Yes." Frowning, I look up. "That's perfectly natural, though."

"Most children are content to find their own flat, maybe move a few counties away. But you want to cross an entire ocean to escape your father…."

Flabbergasted, I halt. My fist ball. "That's not – I never - how did you know?"

Ben's lips purse. "It's relatively common knowledge about town that you wish to move to New York."

"But you don't talk to anyone!" I cry. "And I don't see how they would know as it is a private matter between myself and my father."

Tutting, Ben frowns. "Nothing is a private matter." He tilts his head. "But fair enough. Alright." He clears his throat, and begins rattling off his evidence. "You've been looking at tickets lately, and summer apartment lease in Greenwich, on your laptop. I noticed the history when you let me borrow it last week. And then you've been checking out guidebooks, in the library. There were cards on file."

Completely floored, I stare. Ben simply looks down at me, one brow raised in a very _"Well-what-have-you-got-to-say-about-that?" _manner. But I struggle to find anything to say at all, being utterly shocked and rather offended.

"Have you got nothing better to do than…than stalk me all day?!" I ground out.

"I did no such thing," Ben declares. "I merely noticed, and put the pieces together. You cannot condemn me for being _observant. _I should think it would be obvious to anyone."

"Yes, except not 'anyone' would bother to monitor my internet history – just you, Ben Holly." Horrified, I lift a hand to my mouth. "Is that why you said yours was broken?"

"No." He's annoyed now. "My computer was malfunctioning and I did need to check my email."

"That is still very, very creepy."

His lips twist in an unpleasant manner. "I told you, I was not seeking the information, they're merely observations I deduced to my conclusion," he snaps. "If it makes you uncomfortable, then perhaps you should consider avoiding my company, as I assure you it shall happen again. It's what I do, it's what I'm good at."

"Being a snooping ass?"

"Deducing!" He nearly shouts. Then, calming slightly, he grounds out, "Seeing between the lines to observe what is already obvious. Obvious, if anyone would pay attention. You people, you slodge around all day in this world, oblivious to all the occurs around you, unknowing and unobservant –"

Taken aback, I shuffle a few feet away. This is clearly a sore subject. I am forced to wonder what, precisely, Ben has been accused of in the past to make him so defensive of his odd little talent today. His usually unshakeable reserve is floundering with the mention of any dishonorable use of his skills.

Biting my lip, I near, stopping just before the gangly man. Ben looks down at me, eyes flashing.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "It's got to suck, living like that. But you do have to understand, to normal people, that kind of thing comes off as a little…a little unsettling. Even though that isn't your intention. You're incredible, Ben. What you can do….Not everyone is going to see that."

Immobile, he gazes down on me for a long moment before turning on his heeling and striding away. After a dazed second, I follow.

_"…okay…."_

Continuing on our walk, we take the trail down the hill, into a hollow of birches and pines. The path moves by one of our cottages, this one currently housing an retired professor of mathematics. Dr. Potter is a widow in her mid-sixties, though no one should make the mistake of assuming her to be a frail old woman. She had enough determination to earn a mathematics doctorate back when the field was dominated by men. She's sharp, tough, and loves gardening. When she initially took the place two years ago, she asked permission to clean up the yard. We were more than happy to grant it.

Today it's one of my favorite cottages, and my favorite stops on my walks. The professor is a wonderfully entertaining woman. More than once I've been invited in for tea, and ended up spending the afternoon listening to stories of her life. And, when she isn't home, the mere act of passing by is delightful. Potter planted some lovely peonies that are just starting to burst, along with some leafy hostas. Roses, the blossoms wide and inviting, hang just over the edge of the fence in the front yard.

When we pass by, I pause to bury my face in one of the peonies, inhaling. Peonies have long been my favorite flowers. We have a few bushes around our house, but nothing compares to Potter's.

"Will he let you leave?"

This is asked abruptly. I lift my head gently, looking at Ben from the corner of my eye.

"What?"

There is a tick of impatience in his tone. "Will your father let you leave?"

"Oh." I lean back, though I still cup the flower with both hands. Looking into the silken layers of white petals, I stroke a few with the pad of my thumb. "I don't know. We've talked about it a little. But he isn't keen on the idea. I'll get there myself, if I have to. Without permission."

Ben is quiet for a moment before saying, "You should do it."

I tilt my head. "You think so?"

"Yes. You're miserable here."

"Well," I say. "Not quite miserable. But not happy. Not as happy as I could be."

"Playing would make you happy. You ought to give it ago." He says this vaguely, looking not-quite at me, but just past my shoulder. When his eyes met mine, the seriousness catches me. "You're not suited to living out here, Viola. Move to the city. Study music. You've got a good ear and ability."

"You've never even heard me play."

"I don't need to," he assures me softly. "Now, I would suggest we move before the resident of this house comes outside."

I turn 'round to stop Dr. Potter standing at the window, her lace curtains aside, looking curiously out at the pair of people who have stopped just before her lawn.

"Oh," I cry. "It's Dr. Potter! She's probably just wondering who you are. Come meet her."

After tying Hugo up to one of the fence posts, I start up the small brick trail leading to the door. Ben stands back, impassive. Rolling my eyes, I return to him. "She's lovely, entirely brilliant, and likely intelligent enough to satisfy you for a few moments, anyways. I swear, Ben, you can be so snobbish I truly wonder how you get through life without being continually punched."

The corners of his wide mouth twitch. "Then you'll be unsurprised to know I've not lived completely unscathed."

I take up his elbow. It automatically stiffens under my touch. "Come on."

We reach the door – a scrubbed green thing, entirely original, and I pull the bell. She answers, cautiously.

"Viola, dear, I thought that was you in my garden. You had me nervous," she chides as soon as the door opens. A stout woman, she has neat iron-coloured hair that is typically pulled back in a bun or braid. Today she wears a salmon dress and a white cardigan. She looks like a regular granny, but for the fierce twinkle in her eye. "You usually walk right up. Who is this gentleman?"

"Dr. Potter," I enthuse. "Hello. This is Ben Holly. He's renting the stone cottage on the hill. He's…."

Here I pause, realizing that I don't know what Ben is. What, precisely, he does. He's never mentioned a career. Potter is waiting, brows raised.

"…a good friend," I finish lamely.

Introductions made, we're invited in for lemonade and a chat. To my surprise, Ben acts perfectly normal. Charming, even. He converses with ease, pet's Potter's tabby, thanks her profusely for the biscuits and even compliments them. I've made the man an untold number of sandwiches in the last month alone and he's never even bothered to say "_thanks"_ even once. I hang back, allowing them to have the bulk of the conversation.

During the visit, I mull over what I know about Ben. Or, rather, what I _don't _know. Like, his occupation. Or where he went to school. And anything about his family, or what he was doing before he took up residences in one of the Carter's cottages. He's never had visitors, or even phone calls when I've been in his house. He conducts a variety of experiments, yet there seems to be no consistency in subject or theme. There are no mentions of family, friends, or career on the rare occasion that we have a true conversation. It's disturbing that I've spent a month frequently in the company of this individual, yet there I so little I know about him.

A half hour passes, then I excuse us, saying that we've got to finish our walk and Hugo has been tied up for too long. Potter says goodbye to both of us warmly, and tells Ben to come by whenever he wishes.

We leave. Ben takes the lead, allowing me to get lost within my own thoughts. I think he doesn't mind the silence – if anything, he seems to prefer it. I am so preoccupied, I don't even realize we're on-route to my house until I see it, shadowed in the late afternoon.

Stopping, I look up at Ben. "That was weird."

His brows rise.

"You, being all…normal. Friendly, to Dr. Potter. It was odd."

"Just because I do not typically choose to conduct myself in a sociable manner doesn't mean I cannot mimic the behavior," he says.

"Hm." I step closer. "You're an enigma, Benjamin Holly."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"In what way?" He's the one moving closer now. We must look odd, or we would if anyone were passing to see us. Two people, stopped dead in the middle of the walking path, chests almost touching.

"In everyway." I crinkle my nose in amusement." Shall I see you tomorrow?"

"If you wish." This comes out as a rumble, his voice low and deep. "It is your property."

"You can always turn me away," I remind him. "It's not like you can't."

"Perhaps it's just easier to let you stay than to trouble myself with shooing you out." He's teasing. I think. It's almost impossible to tell.

I squint. "You don't like people, Ben, but that doesn't mean you don't need them or miss them. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that I start for my house.

**-XXX-**

**Trollius laxus is a rare Sussex flower. It's yellow. Looks vaguely like a strawberry flower.**

**Whatcha think? Thoughts, comments, concerns, questions, I take them all and answer as often as possible! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Silhouettes **

**Chapter 4**

**Wow, what a response! Thank you so much!**

**I've been touching on chapter 10 a little, but trying to build up my Star Trek piece enough to start posting sometime soon, so the amount of work on Silhouettes has declined. I suspect I'll reach about 15 chapters with this story, but I always make these predictions and they end up much longer!**

**Enjoy!**

**-XXX-**

Before I duck out for Ben's that following day, Dad stops me. "He's got another set of letters. You can deliver them." Making a point to catch my gaze and hold it, he asks, "If you're going out that way."

He knows that I'm visiting – just as the whole village knows. They've seen me walk to that house, leaving, and I'm sure word of our visit to Potter's has been heard about town. But Dad's not spoken to me of it. There has been no confrontation. I'm forced to wonder what he suspects is going on - if I'm pestering a tenant or if there is something more going on. I don't bother to ask or even speculate on the matter any longer. I simply accept the letters with a nod, and leave.

**-XXX-**

Ben doesn't bother in locking the door when he's in, and he's refused to answer when he knows it's me anymore, so I simply walk in. He's lying across the loveseat against the wall, staring straight ahead in an eerie manner. Without a word, I toss the letters upon his chest, then remove my shoes before sinking into an armchair. A book I'd started last week sits, untouched, tucked between the cushions, and I leaf through until I find where I left off. Ben picks up the envelopes, glancing at the address.

"Letter opener."

Slowly, I pull myself from the text to peer at him from over the top of the book.

"Excuse me?"

"I need the letter opener." He shakes one of the envelopes.

"I can see, yes."

"So get it for me."

Incredulous, I glance at the mantle. "Ben, you're close. And, last I knew, you had functioning legs. Get it yourself."

He falls silent.

Turning back to my reading, I settle into the chair. From across the room, Ben emits a loud, dramatic sigh, crossing his legs. The sigh repeats every few minutes until I fling myself from the chair, cross to the fireplace, grab the letter opener, and toss it at him. He manages to catch it before any limbs are stabbed. The envelopes are opened and read swiftly. From behind the book I occasionally glance at him. They're written in the same script as before, feminine and neat.

I wonder who they're from. It's the only mail Ben ever receives, these letters. They're never more than a page or two in length. Handwritten. And always tucked away on a bookshelf by the desk, between a worn copy of _Gray's Anatomy _and an elephant bookend. The stationary is unremarkable, and I've never seen a return address.

While I am curious, I dare not ask. Ben's secrets are his own, and he'd tell me if it were any business of mine. So, I let my eyes slide away from the papers in his hands and turn back to my reading.

**-XXX-**

"You have a significantly low rate of murder in this county," Ben announces, as though this is a fact purely criminal, a travesty, and revolting to him.

"Which is an appealing characteristic to most people," I say flippantly. "Though, obviously not you."

"It's boring."

The remark ought to make me uneasy, but if anything, it amuses me. That very revelation, however, does serve to make me feel a little unsettled with myself. But I move on.

"I find it peaceful."

"Boring," he repeats shortly.

"We did have one, almost two years ago," I say thoughtfully after a moment. "Susan McLarney. She was a tourist. Found on the beach. Slashed open. It was terrible."

"Oh?" Ben is pointedly disinterested. "Did they ever find the murderer?"

"No," I reply sadly. "They haven't, yet. There's still some hope…." I drift off. Snapping to, I ask, "Is that enough murder for you, Ben?"

"Perhaps," he murmurs, and I get the distinct feeling he's already known all that I have told him.

**-XXX-**

Sometimes, in the right light, Ben's eyes look unnaturally light. So blue they're nearly white. The very color of crystal. It's when he lays on his back, looking up at the ceiling in a state of supreme boredom (or deeply concentrated thought, it's hard to tell which), then looks up into gray midday light when they look most mystical.

He's looking at me like that now, narrowed. And I cannot stop myself from gazing back. Loosing myself, briefly.

"I'm hungry," he announces unremarkably.

I blink. "I'm not cooking for you."

His lips quirk. "I was actually thinking about eating out. I've missed restaurant food."

"Oh?" I catch this tidbit of information and latch onto it. "You used to eat out a lot where you used to live? Was there a lot of variety?"

By now he's off the couch, moving to the desk to retrieve his jacket from the chair. Apparently he's deciding we're going. Casting me a _"Oh-don't-think-I-don't-know-what-you're-doing" _look, he slides the charcoal suit jacket on, straightening the lapels with a tug. "Yes."

"And where might that place be? Where you lived, I mean?"

"Away," he says shortly. "Put your shoes on, we'll walk to town. And don't forget the umbrella, it's due to rain."

I open my mouth to protest, but the slip of a figure that is Ben Holly has already flown upstairs, probably to use the bathroom. Slumping in the chair, I sigh. Then, I pull my shoes up and being tying up the laces.

**-XXX-**

**It's very short, I know! But this next chapter is quite lengthy, I promise you. Unfortunately, you might not see it until Monday - I'm away for the weekend. On that note, I've just started a very fast-paced online class I'm going to have to be working doubly hard at so as to be done before my camp job starts in July, and next week kicks off two weeks of volunteer work at a gifted camp. So while chapters are written, time for editing and posting will be random. **

**Hoping I can keep posting every three days or so. Enjoy the weekend! Have a great father's day!**

**Questions? Comments, concerns, critiques, I take and *try* to answer them all! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Silhouettes Chapter 5**

**Thank you guys so much! Sorry about the wait! My trip was great and work started today. It's all been a blast. **

**Wonderful feedback, I greatly appreciate it. **

**To make up for my absence, here is a super-long chapter. WARNING: There is a bit of a rant at the end. **

**-XXX-**

Without discussion, Ben selects the town's popular pub. It caters traditional foods, is locally famous for it's shepherd's pie with garlic-seasoned mash, and is one of the last places I'd pick. For starters, it is a little too public for my taste; we'll be on display for sure. Our little appearance will definitely hit the gossip mill hard tomorrow. I can't stand the thought of Marge peeking at me over shelves next time I go to the shop, then asking oh-so casually as I check out whether I'm seeing that "Holly bloke?" Besides this, there is always the off-chance Dad will be in for a pint or two and spot us, which would definitely lead to some questions.

I am not ashamed of Ben, or trying to keep him a secret. There isn't anything to hide. However, I do not think Dad particularly approves of me spending time with him. He's simply not gotten the evidence or real reasoning to broach the subject with me.

We enter, and I swear the room's noise drops about thirty decibels. More than a few lingering glances come our way. I can name more than half the room, from the bartender, Eddie, to the elderly Mrs. Berkin seated at the bar. I hail the cook, Tyson, as we pass the open door of the kitchen. We're seated in one of the corners, a booth that is within view of everything and everyone. I slide in, crossing my arms uncomfortably. Either Holly doesn't notice or doesn't care about the attention, because he picks up a menu and beings browsing it disinterestedly. I order water for myself, and Ben, to my surprise, selects a stout brew.

Our waitress, Sharon, can't take her eyes off of Ben. She hasn't even spared me a hello – and we graduated together only two years ago – she is so preoccupied with my partner. With the order taken, she slinks away.

"Well. This is uncomfortable."

"What makes you say that?" Ben asks, feigning ignorance as he examines the painting hanging over our booth. It's a grubby little oil thing, depicting crashing waves and a sinking ship against a cloudy background.

"Maybe it's the fact that everyone is staring at us and undoubtedly taking notes and probably eavesdropping," I hiss lightly. "You've never lived in a small town before, have you? Because anything new or weird tends to catch people's eye. And guess what Ben? At the moment we're both of those things."

He meets my eyes, only a mild interest alight in his. "I don't care."

"That's bully for you, but I do. My father already has suspicion about me, I have no doubt that after tonight he'll have even more ideas."

"You weren't protesting while we were leaving."

"I knew there wasn't any point! You don't listen, you're pushy -"

He cuts me off abruptly. "Ideas. What sorts of ideas?"

I'm at a loss. "Oh, deduce it, Ben."

Sharon has selected that moment to return with our drinks. She sets them before us, and I note the thick, purple acrylic nails she sporting with a shudder. They're the type of nails you could tear a heart out with. The harpy. "Your food will be a few minutes," she tells Ben sweetly. I almost gag into my water.

"You know, Sharon, I'll take a Newcastle Brown to go with my beef," I tell her, all but physically dragging her attention towards me. There is no way I'll get through this night and it's embarrassments without some alcohol in my system. "And keep it in the bottle, please."

There is a slight pout to her lips, but she adds it to the ticket and moves to the bar. In a minute she's back, handing me the bottle. Once she's gone, Ben leans forward.

"Your father suspects we're dating."

"Something like that, yeah."

"But I've not done any of those traditional courting…things," he says, an edge of disgust colouring his words.

"You don't need to," I reply scornfully, taking a heavy swig of Newcastle. "Dates and all that aren't necessary. It's the mere fact that you're spending time with me. A lot of time."

He considers this. "Do you mind it?"

"What, that Dad's under the impression I'm dating a recluse?" Focusing on the bottle, I use my nail to pick at the label. "No. Because I know the truth. He couldn't stop me, anyways."

This seems to satisfy Ben, for he moves on to other subjects.

"Have you spoken to him anymore about your wish to move to New York?"

I had and the memory of the conversation – filled with sharp words and watery eyes – causes me to flinch. "Yeah. It didn't go well."

"Pity."

This reminds me. "Speaking of cities…you've never told me, Ben, where you lived before coming here."

Lips cast in a half-smile, he takes a drink of his pint. "I have not."

I sigh. "Oh, come on. You know practically everything about me, Holly. Throw me a bone. It's only fair."

"Is it?" He gives me a more legitimate smile now. "I fail to see how. Most everything I know about you I've simply…seen. It is no failing of mine that you're not nearly as adept at deducing from what is already before you."

"Ben, you know that's not fair. I'm not nearly as observant or whatever as you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Please?" I beg.

He is silent. I flop against the pleather of the booth, scowling.

"Alright, well, you said you missed eating out. I'd guess that where you lived before allowed for greater convenience, so I'd guess some kind of a city with a lot of take-out and restaurants everywhere. Am I close?"

He inclines his head briefly.

"What about a job? What do you do? Are you a scientist?"

"Of sorts," he allows.

"Give me details."

"Find them," he challenges. Around us, I can feel the attention shift. Our heated conversation is attracting attention. Blushing, I speak softer.

"I'm not like you, I can't just pick things up by looking at someone's jacket lint."

"It's not just lint, and you can try." His eyes glitter. "Come on, Viola, you're better than that."

Sharon has returned again, bearing a plate and a bowl. I tuck into my roast, while across the table Ben delicately picks at his soup.

"Why did you come here?"

"To the pub?" asks Ben vaguely, stirring his spoon. I'd say he looks absentminded, but there is a calculated ways his eyes are lazily scanning the room. This inevitably leads me to wonder why he selected the public house for dinner rather than another establishment, if he came here with some kind of cause, but I brush these thoughts aside to focus on the conversation at hand.

"The county, obviously.

He doesn't even bother glancing up. "I'm not going to tell you."

"Something happened," I suggest. "Something with your job – that's why you don't have a proper one at the moment. Whatever it was, it was bad. You needed to get away. That's why everyone comes here, you know. To hide. They just have different ways of doing it."

There is no reply, so I go on.

"It must have been very bad, too. I'd guess you probably haven't even told most people where you are, or…or they don't care enough to see you. It's been months, and you've had no visitors, no mail, except for those letters. So either you're avoiding people or people are avoiding you. But why?"

"Very astute," he says quietly, patting his lips with his napkin. He folds it, along with his hands, back onto his lap. "You are not bad at the game, Viola. Better than you thought you would be."

I wait. "So…."

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Tell me about the letters, then," I say. I'm frustrated, but no more than usual.

"Tell me what you see," he shoots back.

It's then that we're interrupted by Mr. Davies. He runs the hardware shop, and is great friends with my dad. It's not unusual to see them both at the bar on a Saturday night. He's been an almost-uncle to me since I was a toddler.

"Viola," he crows. He's clearly had a few pints already tonight. "My girl, it's been to long. I had no idea you were back from school!"

"Yeah, Mr. Davies, I got back from uni a few weeks ago." More like a month, but I wasn't about to tell him. "Have you seen my dad lately?"

"Your old man? Oh yeah, last Friday he came out with me and a few of the boys for a bit o' a hunt. Who's this lad? One of your mates from university?" Davies winks, slapping Ben on the shoulder. I can see Ben stiffen automatically.

"Um, no, Ben lives here," I say quickly. Clearly a few pints – anyone with eyes could see Ben is far past a university age, and therefore not likely to be attending with me. "He's renting a cottage from us for the summer, uh, he's studying native plants."

"Eh, one of those science-types?" Davies squints. "I was wondering. You taking care of this girl, eh? Her father might not be a thick bloke, but he'll take on any lad disrespecting his daughter. As will I. I seen the pair of you arguing, just now, and I won't take it, no sir. Our girl isn't to be treated so."

The conversation has taken a quick and unexpected turn. Stunned, I touch Davies's elbow. "There's no need for that, sir, we're merely –"

"I wasn't under the impression the young lady's father was so proactive in her life. Though, I am undoubtedly sure Viola can take care of things herself, should any fellow choose to disrespect her. I certainly have not. And I would ask that you not interfere yourself with matters that clearly do not involve you."

The entire restaurant falls into a hush. Davies, who is more than a little surprised, releases Ben's elbow. "Oy," Davies growls. "We don't take kindly to outside folk meddling with our girls, and I sure as hell don't take to strangers telling me off so –"

His hand goes for Ben's collar. He's got something of a reputation for bar fighting – something Eddie, the bartender, seems to pointedly ignore in favor of Davies money. The booze makes him keener on violence. Dad's seen him take on guys before, even knocked a few out. Ben, reedy and wiry, likely wouldn't stand a chance against him. Without thinking, I push the hand away, crying out, "Stop!"

Davies halts, looking to me. "Vi?"

"We're going." I rise swiftly, plucking up my jacket from the seat. Ben follows suit. I throw Sharon a few bills at the register, then we practically fly from the pub.

Outside, it's raining. I curse, remember the umbrella I'd forgotten back in the cottage. Swinging around to Ben, I ball my fists in an attempt not to cry. He's looking perfectly unruffled, despite the weather and the fact that we'd only just escaped a bar fight.

"Why did you have to do that?" I cry. "You could tell he was itching to punch you."

Ben steps forward. He's close enough that I can feel his body heat. "Because he was being obnoxious and I could have easily subdued him."

I can't help it – I laugh. "You're a weed, Ben."

A hand goes to my forearm, tightening with a grip that seems to contradict my assumption of his strength. He seems to want to assure me that he's perfectly capable of holding his own through a bar brawl. He's staring down at me, rain dripping down his face and plastering his hair to his skin. It's a little overwhelming, really, when paired with his ridiculous eyes, which are shadowed in the dark.

"That was stupid," I insist softly. "A stupid thing to fight over."

"It was his foolishness and not mine, Viola. He was making assumptions."

"And you were just furthering them. My father will be so mad, now, I can't even…this will ruin New York for me."

His eyes are bright. "Then leave. Go on your own."

"I -" Words aren't to be found. I don't even know how we've manage to change subjects so fast. A part of me whispers that he's trying to distract me.

"Nothing is stopping you," he insists. "Go, Viola."

"My father –"

"Is holding you back." This is said calmly.

"It isn't that easy."

"It can be. The only thing stopping you is yourself." He is disinterested in the topic now. Looking up, he remarks, "You forgot to bring an umbrella."

I decidedly hit him on the shoulder. Ben tugs me a little closer, the grip on my arm tightening.

"You should've brought it yourself. But it doesn't matter now, we're both wet. Let's go…I'll dry off at your place then wait out the rain."

Ben grunts. He doesn't make any immediate moves to go. The rain has soaked us both through. I'm shivering. But Ben doesn't seem to want to move. He's just looking at me. Biting my lip, I remove my arms from his grasp to take up one of his hands. Despite the cold of the rain, he's warm. With a sharp tug, I lead us away from town, through the night's downpour.

**-XXX-**

Once we've reached Ben's house, I begin removing clothing. My shoes go first, then my jacket and socks. This about as far as I can go while still remaining descent. Ben goes to stand before the fire, which is not more than a few embers at this point. I duck upstairs to the linen closet to remove two towels. Downstairs, I hand Ben one. He's placed a roll of newspaper on the embers to encourage flame, and a fire now crackles nicely around the fresh logs.

As I towel off my hair, Ben peels off his jacket. He dries his hands and face, then takes up an armchair. I roll my eyes and retrieve a blanket from upstairs to toss around his broad shoulders. He doesn't respond.

Without invitation, I fill the kettle and set out two mugs. Seeing that Ben is still immobile, I return upstairs for a third time. I enter his bedroom – a first – and go to the beside table. The bottom drawer houses socks – just as I suspected – and I pull out one woolly pair. From the wardrobe, I find a pajama set. I leave them folded on the bed. Before I leave, however, I make another interesting discovery: beneath the pajamas, a worn pair of heather sweatpants, with the word _CAMBRIDGE _emblazoned on the side.

I return downstairs and say nothing of the pants.

"I've got pajamas waiting for you on the bed," I tell him. Sitting on the floor, back to the fire, I roll on the sock I'd borrowed. "If you want to change."

Wordless, he stands and disappears upstairs, dropping the blanket onto the nearest chair. He returns a few minutes later, dressed in pajamas and wrapped in a blue bathrobe. It's odd to see him so very casual. Unlike most people, Ben doesn't sort of automatically sink into relaxing when he puts on his jim-jams. He's still just as wired, just as tense as he was before. His hair is a little messier, with a flop of dark and wet curls falling over his forehead. But his manner is unaltered. I pass him a mug. We sit in silence.

"I think the rain has let up a little."

Ben doesn't even glance at the window. "Yes."

I run a finger along the rim of the mug. "I'll just borrow your umbrella, then, and…and head home."

He nods. After another pause, he speaks slowly. "Why did you stop him?"

Frowning, I tilt my head. "Because he was going to hurt you. I didn't want to cause a scene. Why do you think?"

Ben stares into the fire. "I was merely…unsure of your motives."

I sigh. "It doesn't matter. Let's just say I had no desire to be soaking your shirt tomorrow, trying to get rid of blood stains."

His lips quirk. "Fair enough."

"Why did you egg him on?"

Ben's brows rise in a "_Whatever-are-you-speaking-of?" _manner. I cast him a scornful look.

"You know what I mean. You could see he was tanked-up and eager for a tussle."

Quietly, Ben says, "He was toxic. That level of unintelligence shouldn't go so out of line. And he was bothering you," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

It is not the answer I was predicting. Staring into the fire, I wonder what would've happen if I'd allowed Davies to take that swing.

"I should go." I stand. The mug is place in the sink. I return to the sitting room. "I'll bring your umbrella back tomorrow, yeah?"

My back is to him, as I'm sliding on my wet jacket – it has gotten moderately dry-ish sitting by the fire – and straightening my purse. When I turn, he's there. Just behind me. I hadn't heard him come up. I start, nearly knocking against the little bar table by the front door. It hits my hips, sending sparks of pain up my side. Ben reaches out to steady me. I freeze in his grasp. Eyes hidden by dark, Ben hands me the umbrella. I accept it quietly.

"Thanks. I…I'll see you."

I walk to the door and out into the night. Halfway down the hill, I turn back. Ben is a shadow against the window, silhouetted by firelight and his own inability to act as a whole person.

**-XXX-**

**It's a big debate on whether Sherlock was an Oxford or Cambridge man. Some speculate both. I decided on Cambridge. **

**I'm going to get on a soap box for a minute. **

**It's a kind of sleazy thing to log out to post a guest review that is really critical and unnecessarily rude. Cowardly, even. If you're willing to give the heat at least allow the author the chance to open a dialogue with you. Besides this, being a douche while on anon is a low thing in general. I have no problem with criticism – I welcome and encourage it, though there was a time in my life where I was very resistant to it. I would ask that people keep in mind that there are writers on this site who are very young, inexperienced, and just excited to do this. Fanfiction is a great gateway to starting original work, it is a fantastic exercise in writing, and to scare someone off of it by being an arse is just pathetic and inconsiderate and a load of other adjectives. I'll admit, when I was younger and more of an asshole I gave some reviews that were harsh and I greatly regret them now. **

**Basically, what I am trying to day is, don't be rude. Some people are budding writers, and yeah, they might kinda suck, but one of the pillars of Fanfiction is to create a supportive community in which people can both grow as fans and **_**writers. **_**We need to support each other. That support does include critiques, however, it is so very possible to be both helpful and kind when telling someone something in their piece doesn't work.**

**It didn't happen with particular story, but it did happen recently to me, and while the exact content of what I didn't do particularly right in that readers eyes was fair and something I will consider in the future, the way they went about telling me wasn't conducive to self-esteem. **

**Off the soap box!**

**Sorry about the wait! **

**If you're a social media addict such as myself and would be interested, I have a Twitter ( DaniOnTheFritz), tumblr (WordsAreArt), and Instagram ( DaniOnTheFritz) you're free to follow. I take questions there, too, and I love interacting with fellow reader/writers. **

**Reviews, questions, comments, concerns and critiques, I take 'em all/1**


	6. Chapter 6

**Silhouettes Chapter 6**

**Sorry about the wait, guys! It's been a week! Have a nice weekend! And thank you for your lovely reviews. **

**-XXX-**

Dad is already in the kitchen when I arise the next morning. He sits at the island, staring out at the ocean. I bustle about, making myself tea and setting the toaster. He's just finishing his breakfast as I'm sitting down. Just when I think I'm off the hook, he says casually, "I got a call from Davies last night."

"Oh?"

Dad doesn't meet my eye. "He says he saw you out with the Holly bloke last night. Thought you arguing."

"Did he?" I ask disinterested. "Hm. That's funny. Ben and I were just chatting over dinner. Davies stopped by and seemed a little…well, sloshed."

Unhappily, Dad looks at me from the doorway. "Yeah…yeah, he might've mentioned that." He pauses. "Are you sure that Holly is the right kind of person for you to be hangin' 'round, Vi? There's word of him buying funny things at the butcher's, and, well, the word in town is that he's a little…odd. Funny round the head."

I sip my tea. Slowly, I shake my head. With upmost casualness, I assure him, "Oh no, he's quite normal. Ben likes science. So he does a lot of experiments and things."

My father hesitates. I can tell he's debating himself on asking whatever it is he's about to ask, so I sit calmly, waiting.

"You aren't…you aren't seeing the bloke, are you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask innocently.

Dad sighs. "He's not from around here, Vi. He's bound to leave, come fall, and you're not going to…I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't be." Another sip. "I'm not seeing him."

Relief colours my father's features.

**-XXX-**

"Where is your mother?"

It isn't like Ben to ask such questions, so I am taken aback for a moment, pondering before answering lightly. "I haven't got one."

"Everyone has a mother," he scolds.

_"No. Not everyone."_ As breezily as possible, I lift my chin and say, "I haven't. Not truly."

"She ran off." Ben states this blankly, with no sort of emotion or inflection. It's very matter-of-fact; an observation. Not a question.

I incline my head slowly, looking straight ahead, eyes clear. As though sensing my discomfort, Hugo leans a little more against my leg. The pressure is consoling.

"Yes."

"You were young." He peers at me, trying to deduce an approximate age, the freshness of my wound. "When?"

It's a terribly rude thing to bring up – but that is terribly _Ben. _I allow myself a few moments before answering slowly. I don't give him the answer right away; he'll likely pry, anyways, and I'd rather get the story done and told, rather than pull it out. Taking breath, I begin.

"She and my dad met and married pretty young. 18, or something. I think my dad was younger. Had me right off the bat. Didn't take her too long to realize motherhood just wasn't something she was cut out for, what she wanted from her life. So, she left when I was about six months."

There are things I don't mention, of course. Over the years, I've gathered bits and piece of her life from my grandparents and my father. She's an American, born in New Jersey, but she moved over here when she was young. She was a good singer, and worked locally before beginning to branch out. But that was before she married my father. When she left she returned to the Opera, briefly. I don't know what she's doing now.

Ben doesn't respond right away. We keep walking, breathlessly silent within the morning mist, the only noise being the distant waves, our ragged breath, and Hugo's own faint puffs of air. It's still early enough that we are the beach's only patrons.

"You never knew her."

"Well – not quite. She did come by, once, when I was ten. Took me out for ice cream. Dad wasn't happy, but he didn't say no. She was…." I stare into the air, searching for words. "Young. Sort of witty. I think she was a little disappointed in how I'd turned out. Still, she seemed to mostly like me. She and Dad talked a bit afterwards, then she left. Next Christmas I got a package – a necklace and a tin of Czech candies. But that was it."

"Curious," he murmurs.

"Is it?"

Ben looks up, catching my eyes and holding the gaze. "It is a pity one should not know their parents."

"Oh? What about you, Ben? You've never mentioned yours."

"I've a brother," he says shortly. And that's as far as we get. He changes the subject. "It's very…smelly, out here, isn't it?"

"It's the beach," I observe. "Dead things float up on shore, then you have the water, all briny… have you never been to a beach before?"

"It's been sometime." He looks around. "Does the sand always have a tendency of sticking?" The hems of his pants are positively covered with a solid layer of the gritty material.

"Yes." I giggle, then immediately regret the girlish sound. "Sticking is quite a big characteristic of sand. That's why I don't even bother with shoes. Besides, it feels good!"

His expression tells me that Ben doesn't quite agree. No matter. I pull him towards the waves with me. He hangs back as I crash about the water. Hugo, dragging up a stick of driftwood, begs to play fetch, so I throw a few times along the shore. He bounds back and forth happily, tumbling against me with each return to be rewarded with a hearty rub of the head. Ben observes from a safe distance.

I leave Hugo to play in the water, making my way up the sand back to Ben. His attention is on the water, so for a moment I openly watch him. Ben doesn't quite fit with the landscape, wearing black trousers and a lavender button-down shirt. Unlike me, he's not carrying his shoes, but has both boots firmly laced to his feet. In the grey morning light he appears paler than ever. His curls contrast darkly against his skin. The blue-white eyes are ethereal, staring off into the ocean's horizon.

Another step forward and I scream, plummeting to the sand.

"_Oh…Oh God. Oh my God…."_

Above me, Ben has frozen, looking down. He slides down the dune towards me, landing on his knees. A panicked flash enters his eyes. Two hands cup either side of my face in an attempt to steady me.

"My foot," I whimper. "I stepped on something and…and I think I'm bleeding."

Ben moves to look at my feet. Relief colours him when he sees, but the grim expression has soon returned. "You've stepped on a shard glass. It's gone in fairly deep."

Without another word, he's scooped me up. Whistling to Hugo, he adjusts me so that I'm cradled against his chest, head on his shoulder.

"My shoes," I whisper.

"Later," he replies shortly.

Ben carries me across the beach and up the stairs to the parking lot in silence. I'm terribly glad I convinced him to let me drive – his house is nearly two miles away. I am loaded gently into the back seat. Hugo hops into the front. Ben drives, and in no time we're -

- at my house.

"No, no, please," I protest. "Dad can't see me –"

Ben meets my eyes the rearview mirror. "Viola, you're going to be limping, he'll find out sometime."

"Better later than soon," I say hastily. "Go, go!"

We end up in his drive. Again, I am lifted up. Ben is surprisingly gentle. He navigates us through the threshold, then up the stairs for the bathroom. I am set on the edge of the tub and told sternly to sit. He returns with a bowl, a wash cloth, and a sewing kit. I blanch at the last item, only to be scolded for not sitting still. Retrieving a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet, Ben elevates my foot with his knee. After a moment's examination, he looks at me seriously.

"This will hurt. It's in the tender part of your arch. I need you not to wiggle, flinch, or otherwise move. Is that clear?"

"Okay," I whisper.

With a steadied hand, Ben begins removing the glass. It comes out, bloody, a jagged brown piece nearly an inch long, and is dropped unceremoniously into the bowl with a distinct _"cling!" _ I wince at the sound. The pain deepens. I can feel my foot get wet with sticky, warm blood. Bile rises in my throat.

Using the cloth he's soaked in warm water, Ben wipes away the layers of blood and sand to examine the cut. I hiss when he uses the pads of his fingers to part the wound. A grim expression takes his face.

"You need stitches. It's reasonably deep."

I bite back a moan. "There's a physician in town -"

He gives me a look. "You don't want your father to know."

The thought of homemade stitches terrifies me. "Do you know how to…how to do that sort of thing?"

"Yes, of course," Holly assures me with a lightness I know to be forced. He's meeting my eyes fully, so it doesn't take much to realize he's blatantly lying. I don't doubt that Ben knows the practice – in theory. However, I cannot believe he's exactly certified in performing such medical actions. "It's nothing."

Nervous, I blink up at him. "Ben. If it's going to hurt -  
"I have an anaesthetic."

I could question why he'd have such a thing just lying around, but at the moment, I am simply grateful. Sinking with relief, I nod. Ben disappears in a flash to return several seconds later with a syringe, a shot glass, and a 3/5th a bottle of scotch.

My eyes widen at the booze. "Is that…um, necessary?"

"Takes the edge off," he answers shortly. My foot is placed in his lap again. Setting the glass on the porcelain edge of the sink, Ben measures out a shot. He hands the glass to me. "Take it back when I inject you," he orders. "No sipping – though this is a terrible waste of good scotch, thankyouverymuch Ms. Carters - knock it straight back. We need the alcohol to influence you as soon as possible."

I tense when the needle is readied. Ben gives me a few second's warning. When the think metal piercing my sole, I tip back the glass and drain it of its contents. My mouth feels sour for several seconds. I sit up, swallowing thinly. My foot is already beginning to feel numb.

"Take another."

I obey. This is followed by a third, then I sip at a forth while I watch my physician work.

Ben is busying himself readying the needle. To my surprise and wonder, he's got a proper, curved hook and black surgical thread. I watch as he threads the flashing silver hook. Once that task is completed, Ben twists 'round to retrieve a bottle of peroxide. Holding the bowl beneath my foot, he pours the peroxide over the wound with a measured hand. I cannot feel the sizzle of white bubble eating away at bacteria, though I know they're there. Satisfied, Ben wipes off the excess, then picks up the needle.

He meets my eye for a brief moment. Biting my lip, I look to him, apprehensive. Without a word or gesture or any indication, he begins.

In less than ten minutes it is done. But it still feels like ages to me.

Ben seals the cut up with great precision, then places a few layers of cotton gauze and tape over the stitches. He then fetches me another pair of woolly socks (reminding me I have yet to wash and return the ones I'd borrowed). When it appears I'm relatively stable, he helps me hobble downstairs.

I am left alone for several minutes. Without a piece of reading within arm's length, I'm forced to turn to the closest thing. Which, happens to be a few manila folders on the small side table. Official, and clearly off-limits. But, being bored and a little drunk, I nudge one open. What I find leaves me incredibly confused.

**-XXX-**

**Ah, the mysterious mother and cliché injured-so-I'mma-gonna-sew-you-up. **

**Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment, critique, and ask questions!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Silhouettes Chapter 7**

**Well, there was a low number of reviews, but nothing could keep me from being motivated! I really appreciate my regulars, shot out to them! **

**-XXX-**

"_Lacerations coincide with keys….sand on shoes suggests recent trip to beach…hair curled, not usual. Meeting someone. A respected someone…."_

There are photos. A petite blonde, lying on the sand. Wearing a floral skirt, a black blouse, half-open. I've never seen the photo before, but I recognize the woman instantly. It's Susan McLarney. The Scottish girl who was found dead on our beach nearly two years ago.

I almost drop the file.

Why does Ben have this?

I thumb through the notes, photos, clippings, reports, thorough confused. Is he some kind of policeman? Detective?

Or….Bile rises in my throat again. _"Or some kind of murderer?"_

But no. No, that's not Ben. That's not Ben at all.

_"How could you know?" _I scold myself. _"You don't know anything about him." _

Tentatively, I turn to the next file. I glance upstairs. Once assured that Ben will not be returning soon, I open up the folder.

This file is filled with nothing but newspaper clippings. I get a flash of photos of Ben in black and white newsprint, eyes wide. In a few he's wearing a funny deerstalker cap. In one or two photos a shorter blonde man stands beside him nervously, mouth firm. There is a tug at the back of my mind, telling me that these images are familiar. The niggling sensation catches me short when I spot a name in one of the captions. _"Sherlock Homes -_." I know that name. I've heard it. Somewhere… But I don't….How –

I hear the stairs squeak, and with a snap I'm shoving the photos back into the file and rearranging the folders back on the table. Trying to look as bored and casual as possible, I snuggle into the armchair, head flopping to the side, eyes hazy. I want to look as sleepy as possible, rather than dazed and panicked.

Ben enters slowly. The look he casts me is long and enough to make me shift uncomfortably.

_"He can't know."_

But it's Ben, and he can. He completely can. That's the thing, Ben's crazy good at knowing thing.

"How are you feeling?" he asks lightly, coming to kneel beside me, lifting my foot. Long, pale fingers readjust my sock. It's an intimate, tender touch I'd never expect from Ben. I can feel my cheeks heat.

"Better," I whisper. "But I think the numbing-stuff is wearing off."

His lips tuck up in a half-smile. "We'll get you some pills. You're going to have to be cautious in walking on that foot for the next few weeks."

"Yeah." Sitting up, I'm a little more level with him. "Thank you, Ben. I should…go."

"What will you tell your father?"

"The truth. Now that I'm in one piece, he'll be a little less apt to freak." I look down. "Thank you. So much. I'm sorry you had to deal with this. Not your idea of the perfect afternoon, I'm sure."

"It was not so terrible," he allows with a small smile.

For a moment, an awkward silence takes us. I bite my lip. Gently, I make to stand. Ben's hand shoots out to my elbow, steadying me. I inadvertently lean into him. Now my blood is really warm. We're chest-to-chest – or, rather, my chest is about level with his abdomen and eyes with his shoulder, as he towers over me easily. Impassive, Ben holds me.

With a cough, I back up. "Sorry. Um. I'll go. I can drive."

"Yes." He's turned to the door. I hobble after him.

"I'll see you sometime."

Ben nods.

From my rearview mirror, I see an orange glow alight in the front parlor window and wonder if he's noted the shifted files by now, or it was something he was aware of when he came down the stairs.

**-XXX-**

Dad isn't home when I get in. I leave him a note on the mirror of the foyer, saying that I'd been struck with a headache and wish to be left alone for the evening, then limp upstairs. After grabbing a few ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom, I down three. I take the glass with me to the bedroom, and sink into my bed with great care.

Sleep is difficult to find, as my mind is plagued with thoughts of the files and Ben and what I don't know.

Eventually I drift off into an uneasy sleep, waking every few hours to stare at the ceiling in confusion.

**-XXX-**

Breakfast the next morning is a dramatic affair.

I limp downstairs with extreme caution, fully expecting a lecture from Dad once he sees my injury. But he's not to be immediately found. Though I've risen rather late – nine o'clock – he isn't in his office, or out of the house (I can see his car from the front window), or before the TV in the parlor. I finally find him in the kitchen.

The atmosphere of the room is heavy. The paper is still in its roll on the counter by the coffee pot. A cup of tea sits, untouched, beside my father's spread hand. He stands, hunched, over the island, staring blankly out the small window above our stainless steel sink. Hugo is curled in his basket, nose hidden beneath his paws. He can tell something is up.

"Dad?"

He turns. It's then that I notice his eyes are red-rimmed. "Viola," he murmurs.

When he moves I spot the open letter and torn envelope.

A hand goes out to me, and I stumble into my father's arms, unsure of the circumstances of his distress, just knowing that I wish to comfort him.

He gasps. "Six months ago. They only just found our address."

I squeeze him tighter. "What?"

"You mother." Dad pulls back. He cannot seem to get the words out. For a moment he struggles, mouthing attempting. Finally, he manages a single word. "Dead."

My arms drop. He embraces me again, and in my hair, stroking and making soft sounds. I cannot move. Yesterday I thought I was numb, in shock. It's nothing in comparison to today. I can feel a liquid cold start at the base of my skull and penetrate down my spine.

I whisper. "She's -"

I sink onto the nearest stool.

"I'm sorry, Vi. I am so sorry. She…it was months ago. They've been looking for us ever since. The lawyers…."

"What?" I blink up at him.

"The lawyers, love," he says gently. "There is the matter of the will."

I hadn't even considered this. Speaking of matters I hadn't considered….

"What…happened?"

Dad swallows. "I don't know." He gestures to the letter. "They were very vague."

I pick up the paper. Scanning the cold black type, I read the formal statement. _"Mother to the heir…passed six months ago…last will and testament…only known living relative…contact as soon as this correspondence is received…."_

The cold has fully engulfed me. The letter is returned to the counter. I cannot bring myself to speak. Instead, I pat Dad on the shoulder, then rise to limp to the hall, then up the stairs. Dad follows without question. He tucks me into bed, shutting the door quietly. I stare at the ceiling. Eventually, I fall asleep.

**-XXX-**

**Well. That took a sharply dramatic turn. **

**I meant for more time in between the introduction of the mother and her demise, but sometimes you publish things before you realize you had other plans…anyways.**

**Thank you for reading, hope you're enjoying it. Questions, comments, critique and concerns, I take 'em all. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Silhouettes Chapter 8**

**I am more than eager to read your response to this chapter. **

**Thank you so much for all of the follows on tumblr! I apologize for my lack of activity, but I've had a lot on my plate lately. That being said, I also appreciate the follows on this site and twitter, as well as your wonderful reviews. You are glorious. **

**-XXX-**

I stay indoors, in my darkened room, for several days. While my mother had no real part in my life, her death has affected me. The possibility of _"maybes" _and _"somedays" _has slipped beyond my grasp – I will now never know my mother.

Two days following the news, I rise around noon. I've not showered since that morning, but I have no motivation to do so today. Instead, I cross to my vanity on heavy limbs, and sit before the mirror. From the bottom drawer, tucked between the pages of an old journal, I retrieve a photo; the only photo I have of my mother. I'd found it when I was about seven, in our attic. She's very young in it, perhaps twenty. Her hair is dark, like mine, and long, hanging past her shoulders and fluttering in a breeze that is unseen, yet perfectly captured. Her eyes stare straight into the camera, clear and bright, teasing. They're the clearest blue I've ever seen – except maybe Ben's. Her expression is sharp. She's aware, curious, lips cutting in a sculpted smile.

When I was old enough to realize I look like her, I knew she was beautiful and that I had inherited features of that beauty but they hadn't quite come together. I possessed the straight nose and ivory skin, but I am more curvaceous by far, with wider hips and more meat on my bones. The generously plump mouth is entirely my father's. My eyes are a hazel-y green rather than an ethereal violet. My hair falls back in the same dark waves, waves that are more often than not fizzed from the briny sea air than sleek and shining. Oh yes, I had the features – but they are not so similar as to mark me as her daughter. I am glad of this, because to look too much like her would hurt my father. To resemble her too greatly would remind everyone of who my mother was, would remind them of the caged and brilliant Ms. Carters, who ran off on her husband and child.

I turn to the mirror. My face is gaunt, eyes sparkles. I cannot recognize myself. Holding up the picture next to my face, all I can see is _her. _

Fist clench. The picture falls to the vanity counter. I'm left staring into the mirror, my heart racing, wondering _"Why, why, why?"_

**-XXX-**

Almost a week passes before I can bring myself to leave the house. The first place I go is Ben's. I find the door, unlocked, as usual, and for some reason this little detail catches in my throat.

He's seated at his desk, dressed in his usual suit jacket and trousers, wearing a black shirt that stretches nicely over his thin form. I approach on tender feet. He doesn't look up.

"Ben?"

The glance I receive is fast, a quick calculation of my figure. I hang back, waiting for the inevitable conclusion. It doesn't take long.

"A week isn't a very long time to be in mourning."

I roll my eyes. "And I am impressed."

His lips quirk.

"You're not going to ask how I am?"

"I already know," he answers shortly. "Would you hand me the poker?"

"How could you know? The sloppy dress, messy hair, red eyes, I can get all of that. But how could you know how I'm feeling?" I'm not angry in the least, just curious.

He blinks, but never removes his eyes from the screen. "How does anyone feel after loosing a grandparent?"

For a moment, I'm forced to freeze. Then, slowly, I shake my head. "It wasn't my grandparents, Ben. "

It's Ben turn to halt. He frowns into the screen. "Uncle."

"No." It's strange how breezy I can pretend to be in this guessing game.

"Aunt, of course."

"Wrong again. Mother. Six months ago," I say quietly. "The lawyers couldn't find contact information until a few weeks ago. I'm going to London on Thursday to visit with them."

"Mother," he repeats. He turns to me. "Has there been an obituary?"

It is a slightly morbid question. But I answer anyway. "No. Not yet. She's already had a funeral, anyways."

"How did she die?"

Now it's irritating. "I don't know," I snap. "They were very vague. I'll probably find out on Thursday, when they read me the will. Cancer, or something, I don't know."

"If it were cancer she'd have time to prepare," he murmurs, and I know it's not directed towards me. "At the very least, write a letter or call or something. Connect with that last bit of legacy. Strange. I'd guess freak accident or murder. Not suicide, she'd still prepare for that. You're her daughter, her last connection to living on. And being as flighty as she was, I'd doubt she had any other children. No, she'd want to see you…so not suicide, not cancer or any other disease of that nature, so…freak accident or murder."

My fists are balled tightly. "_Thank you," _I ground out. "For that wonderful speculation of the cause of my mother's death, but I don't think you're qualified to give any assumptions on the life and death of Irene Adler –"

At this, Ben freezes completely. The entire room seems to just _stop. _Stiffly, as though he is mechanical, he looks up.

"What did you say?" he asks lowly.

I blink. "You've got no right to make any guesses about the life and death of my mother?"

"No," he says slowly, enunciating with great care. "The name. What. Was. Her. Name?"

His impassioned manner is frightening. I've never seen Ben's eyes flash so. Their depth has been magnified, the ice hardened. His fingers flex dangerously against the wood grain of the desk. I swallow.

"Adler," I say softly. "Irene Adler. She took back her maiden name when she left Dad. It's my middle name, actually."

I did not think that his expression could be scarier. His face transforms into that of a man who is watching his entire world fall apart. Eyes wide. Face, completely frozen, figure stiff. It's terrifying. Ben simply isn't expressive like that. I'm tempted to draw back. Instead I near, crouching before him.

"You recognize it. Her name. You knew my mother?"

Ben just stares. I put a tentative hand on his knee.

"Ben…Ben, please. If you knew her, you have to tell me," I plead.

While he's looking at me, Ben isn't truly _looking _at me, he's seeing _through _me. And for the first time since we've started this weird dynamic, I'm the ghost between us. I am the half-person. The silhouette, broken only by air and sound and light. And I cannot bear it.

A hand goes to my hair, as though he is trying to reassure himself that I am real. Still kneeling before him, I sit still a state of semi-shock. Because Ben doesn't just touch people, unless it is absolutely necessary. And he sure as hell doesn't caress their skull, curl his fingers into their hair as he's doing at the moment. That is simply not Ben. My hands reach up to curl around his own limbs. I might be crying – I feel lightheaded and perhaps my cheeks are wet, but I can't speak and I cannot really tell and –

My face is tilted upwards, held aloft by Ben's long-fingered hands. He's positively incredulous.

"The woman," he says softly, almost so quietly I cannot make out his words. "But how…?"

Those scarily bright eyes are flashing over my face, searching. "Never easy to read," he murmurs, and I know he's not referring to me. "_La Belle Dame Sans Merci." _

I know that poem. We'd had to read it in school. Was that what he thought me to be? Or my mother? A beauty lady with no mercy? My stomach lurches. He's spot on, if that's the case.

"Ben," My hands move to mimic his own. I cup those sharp cheekbones, pads of my thumbs stroking his cold skin. "Please, did you know her? How did you know my mother?"

With my words, he seems to break from the reverie. The glaze over his eyes fades, and he blinks slowly, as though waking from a dream. Ben straightens, releasing me. I do the same, and rise from my crouched position. Uncertain, I back away. But a hand flashes out to catch my wrist. Ben's standing before me, impassive, holding my arm.

"Tea," is all he says before he releases me and ducks into the kitchen.

Dumbfounded, I stand in the middle of the parlor. I wasn't even aware Ben knew how to make tea. However, from where I stand I can hear the sink, hear him filling the kettle and setting it to boil, followed by the rustling of hands searching for the strainer, then the clink of mugs being removed from the cupboard. After several seconds, I trail into the sitting part of the parlor and sink into the loveseat.

Ben reappears a few minutes later. He soundlessly hands me a mug, then takes up the armchair perpendicular to me. I let the moment hang in the air for several minutes before launching my question.

"Did you know her?"

"No. Not personally." It is said simply, without inflection. "But I knew _of _her."

That isn't enough to sway me from further inquiry. "How?"

His lips quirk. "Her business was caught up in some…scandal a while back. I was asked to clean up."

"What business?" I ask sharply.

"I daresay you'll find out shortly," he responds coolly. A pause. "It isn't my place to tell."

This is enough to satisfy me for the moment on that count. But I am not finished. "Why…did you react like that?"

He is silent. I prod again with his name, gently. When I receive no reply I decide to take action Leaning forward, my hand brushes his knee. In response, he casts me a reproachful look.

"She has a reputation. I was merely surprised to discover the relation."

I don't quite believe him, for some reason. The memory of the file still flashes in my mind. Ben Holly has something hidden, some secret or something he is keeping from me. I all too desperately wish to know _what _and _why. _But, as everything involving Mr. Holly, no amount of questioning will lead me to these answers. He's mysterious. An enigma in his own right.

"You're nothing like her," he adds after several seconds, an afterthought. "Not in the least.

If it's a compliment, a reassurance, or a slight, I do not know. I finish my tea without further questions. Ben returns to his desk. I take up a book. And, for the moment, things return to a state of semi-normalcy.

**-XXX-**

**I am more than eager to read your response to my twist…**

**Hopefully no one is too mad. I mean, there wasn't too much foreshadowing, so I know some people will be upset, and then I just introduced the mother in there anyways...**

***sigh***

**Questions, comments, critiques and concerns, I attempt to answer them when I'm free of homework. Big shout out to DouloAnastasis for reading and reviewing every chapter last night. Huge pick-me-up. Thank you oodles. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Silhouettes Chapter 9**

**Wow. That was quite a response. I surprised a lot of people.**

**Thank you very much! This is a bit of a shorter piece, and doesn't contribute much to the plot, but it is an interlude focused on Viola. **

**-XXX-**

That evening, I come to realization that while I have been wallowing in my own grief and confusion, my father hasn't been much better off. I am ashamed to realize I've significantly lacked in giving him support and comfort – while I had lost a shadowy figure in my life, my father's wife, the woman he still somewhat loved, had vanished, once and for all, from his.

So I made an effort to be sweet. I made dinner, brought him a beer, spoke at dinner. Instead of disappearing upstairs, I hung around the sitting room to watch the evening news with him. I sit on the floor knitting, back against the couch while he rests at the other end, eyes glued to the screen. The weather report and sports news goes unnoticed by me, the anchor's voice a mere background noise. I'm not paying the least bit of attention. Until –

"_—And rounding out tonight's report, we've been informed in a press release today by local police officials that a new lead and a new suspect has arisen in the McLarney case. For those of you unfamiliar with the circumstances, the body of Susan McLarney of Carlisle was found here upon our East Head beach just under two years ago. Police announced today that a lead from a private investigator has reignited the case. A suspect is now in custody. More details on that in the coming weeks, I'm sure. And now onto Jill, who has our health watch for the week -" _

"Well, that's brilliant," Dad says. "Give her family a bit o' hope. Pity. That case has been going on too long."

"Yeah," I agree. My throat feels suddenly dry. I focus on my stitches. "It's good, definitely. I didn't realize PIs were involved in that sort of thing."

"Oh, it was probably some bloke her family hired, once they saw the police weren't making any headway. It's what I would do."

Later, in my bedroom, I'm forced to consider Ben. Was he a private detective? Was that the reasoning behind all the weird, disconnected experiments? The files I'd found? Had he moved here simply because he was hired to find out the truth behind Susan McLarney's brutal passing?

More questions than answers surface over my musings. I decide that Saturday, after I've returned from visiting the lawyers in London, I'll bring these questions to Ben. It's none of my business, true, and I have no right to know. But we're friends. Surely he could tell me.

**-XXX-**

Dad drops me off at the station the next morning. On the drive, I casually bring up our mysterious tenant.

"Did Holly ever mention what he was doing before he moved here?" I ask lightly. "What kind of job he held?"

Dad looks at me sideways, slightly frowning. "No, he didn't. Don't you know? I'd figure after all that time you spend with him, he'd have told you something."

"Oh, it's just never come up."

**-XXX-**

I meet the lawyers at a very posh and very imposing brick building near Postman's Park. A receptionist in a pink skirt-suit smiles at me blandly before asking me to sit. She calls in my arrival, and several minutes after sitting uncomfortably on their stiff white couch browsing a copy of _Architecture Today, _I am ushered into a conference room and seated at a long black granite-topped table. The room is dark, with heavy wooden panels and shelves stacked with thick, leather-bound tomes. A small team of lawyers and paralegals sit beside the window at the very end, almost blending into the dark damask curtains.

Sitting lightly, I smooth my pencil skirt of its imaginary wrinkles and pray my hair in its chignon isn't too stuffy. Everyone smiles at me. I offer a tentative smile back.

"Ms. Carters," the man known as Mr. Webbersays. "It is a pleasure to meet you, though the circumstances are unfortunate. Your mother often said you were a beautiful young woman and I can see she was too right."

I highly doubt Irene ever said such a thing, if she mentioned me at all. But I thank him anyways.

"As you know, we are here today to discuss and review your mother's last will and testament. If you wish, we can also make a visit to her final resting place. It is entirely up to you. Now, if you will allow me to explain how this process works in regards to her will and your inheritance…."

It is all a blur of legal terms and figures. I do my best to keep up. What I manage to make out is that she has left my quite a complex estate. There are papers to review, later, but the biggest thing is the will itself, naturally, which is read to me in the gravest of tones by Mr. Webber, while the others look on with grim expressions and eyes of sympathy.

I am being left a house (one that Webber promises me we shall also visit, if I so choose), a car, and a tidy inheritance. The exact number is overwhelming. Enough to get me to New York and keep me their comfortably for quite some time. The estate is far nicer than I would have guessed. My mother did well for herself.

There are things to sign, of course, but I ask if I can first see the house and the grave. Webber is completely on board with this idea, and insists two of his paralegals – a slip of a blonde thing named Tiffany and an awkward boy in an ill-fitting suit who goes by Lyonel – escort me, as well as take me out for lunch.

We head out to the company car, and Tiffany asks what I would prefer. I tell her anything is fine, really, as I don't know too many restaurants down here. She takes us to a sandwich shop where we eat in relative quiet. I answer a few questions about my mother.

Did I know her?

"No, not in the least, so this is a great surprise."

That's a pity, they both agree, she seemed like a nice woman.

A bit scary, Lyonel interjects. He promptly blushes. But I grin, and ask him to go on.

From what I can gather, she seemed very, very aware of everyone and everything and her effect on people. She was sharp. Shrewd. They'd only seen her a handful of time. She had made an impression.

We finish our sandwiches and make for the car. Lyonel explains as Tiffany pulls away from the parking garage, that we will first be going to Irene's house. I hold my breath and smile.

We pull up before a smart white row of house, each with black iron fences and Grecian columns sitting beside the door. We enter number forty-four. I take in the lavish foyer, it's marble floors and the hardwood stairs, the gold mirror and hand-carved running table. We move into the upstairs parlor, a creamy beige room with sheer curtains and antique, ivory upholstered furniture. We visit her bedroom, which is a dark affair of lace-patterned black and grey wallpaper, a four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the room. My fingers skirt the vanity, which has a thin film of dust on its surface. Rows of lipstick sit in a silver stand. Lotions, makeup, perfumes. It fits with the woman I remember. I lift one crystal bottle up and inhale the scent of peonies. I move to the huge closet and let my hands wander about to caress the aisle of silk, satin, cotton, velvet, leather…the materials are rich, the clothing well-kept. We move to a small corner office, with a window that looks out on the street below. A laptop sits forlorn on the desk. It's otherwise quite bare, save for a few framed canvases of flowers, oils that seem to shimmer with an ill-possessed life. From here we move downstairs to the kitchen, which is stark, tiled black-and-white, and looks as though it's seen little use. I wander through another few rooms – a downstairs parlor, a bathroom, coming to several conclusions:

A) There are no personal touches, I note as I pass through each room. No framed photos. No mail lying about. Not even a few plants, or any sign of pets.

B) All in all the house is very, very lovely, but feels even more lonely. I am informed that my mother kept a personal assistant, and a maid who came 'round once a week. But that seems to be all. There is never any mention of family or friends.

While this place is very beautiful and grand and well-established, it saddens me. I pass through it once more, then inform my guides that I am ready to leave. Tiffany presses the small brass key that belongs to the house into my palm. I pocket it.

We then drive to the cemetery.

I am lead through the rows slowly. The walk give me time to think, time to consider all that I have learned today and all that I must now do. With every measured step a new wave of confidence floods my heart. I never thought I would ever want to resemble my mother in any kind of way, but today her boldness, her fierce nature swells within me.

Tiffany halts our small caravan. With a light gesture, she indicates my mother's grave. The paralegals hang back as I move forward.

It is a simply black headstone. Rectangular. Polished. Inscribed is her name – _Irene Elizabeth Adler. _Then her dates. No mention of my father.

Towards the bottom, in a sweeping script, reads:

"_I saw their starved lips in the gloam, _

_ With horrid warning gapèd wide,_

_And I awoke and found me here, _

_On the cold hill's side._

_And this is why I sojourn here, _

_Alone and palely loitering,_

_Though the sedge is withered from the lake, _

_And no birds sing."_

I quickly recognize the ending verses to _"La Belle Dame sans Merci." _I am struck with the memory of Ben's words. Had he known? Has he visited my mothers grave?

Perhaps, I reflect, it is a little odd to have such a cruel poem inscribed upon a headstone. Then again, it could have been within my mother's wishes. I shall have to ask Webber, when we return.

For several minutes I stand before my mother's resting ground in a solemn silence. I petition her spirit, if it be lingering, to give me a little more courage. And then, I turn to go, saying goodbye to my mother for only the second time in my life.

**-XXX-**

** I did research as much as I could about Irene Adler's house. Number 44 is right, so at least I'm good there. But there aren't too many photos of the interior out there, so I just had to improvise. **

**For the record, Irene isn't dead. This is simply picking up the ending of "Scandal" - she is in hiding. **

**The poem is _La Belle Dame sans Merci _by Keats. I think fits with Irene quite nicely. You should give it a read. **

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer them all - at some point. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Silhouettes Chapter 10**

**I hope this chapter clears a little more up on the subject of whether Irene died or not. We'll also be returning to the murder mystery. This is far longer than chapter nine. Enjoy! **

**-XXX-**

Dad meets me at the train station on Friday afternoon. I hug him, then allow my case to be taken and packed into the trunk. He shows remarkable restraint; my father has a tendency to get a little emotional when I return home after trips or semesters away. No questions are asked until I am home, seated comfortably in the parlor, and nibbling on a ham sandwich.

"What is the word, Vi?"

"Well," I reply, wiping my lips on a napkin delicately. "Paying for uni won't be so tough now."

It's a half-joke, because my scholarships ensured that university bills wouldn't be too terrible anyways. But Dad isn't amused. If anything, he deflates slightly. I realize what he's after. A more solemn tone enters my voice.

"It was an accident, Dad. She was on vacation in the East. A car accident." I say quietly.

I don't know why I lie. Why I don't say that she was in the _Middle _East, that it was a rough area, and that she was purposefully captured by a terrorist cell. I don't explain that she was recognized for her involvement in government intelligence. Her particular demise – beheading – is left untold. I don't explain that there was no accident, there was an execution.

And I certainly do not mention her business venturing following her retirement from the music world.

Perhaps it is because I can still see a quiver of love in the way he holds his hands when thinking of her. He doesn't care about any inheritance, and legacy. Dad simply wants to know what became of his wife.

"I can take you to her, sometime," I offer awkwardly. "When we're in town. It's…a nice spot. Nice headstone."

He lets out a long breath. Then he smiles. It's a little watery. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, Vi."

My heart aching, I hug my Dad. It is brief, but heavy. He squeezes a little too tight.

**-XXX-**

The next day I walk to Ben's with Hugo. My dog is positively energized. According to Dad, he'd been quite depressed when I left Thursday, thinking I was off to university again. Hugo is one of my guilts. I hated to leave him alone with Dad for the year. The thought of crossing an entire ocean and leaving him behind makes me ache. I've had him since I was twelve.

Today he bounds beside me, tongue lolling and tail wagging. When we stop before Ben's door. I scratch behind his ears, stroking the silky brownness. He leans heavily against me. His entire body jitters with happiness. Yes, I'll definitely miss Hugo.

The door swings opens abruptly. Someone was getting impatient. Ben hangs from the frame, looking slightly irritated. His brow furrows upon seeing me. But nothing is said, and he moved to let me pass.

Overall the cottage is a little out of sorts – books and papers tossed about, and so on. There aren't nearly enough dishes in the sink, leading me to suspect that he's not been eating. I choose not to remark. Ben follows me, rather than returning to his desk (or bed, he's in a bathrobe, so it's difficult to discern where, exactly, he was previously occupying). We sit, him in the armchair, me in the loveseat. Hugo paces for a moment before settling against the loveseat. One of Ben's long-fingered hands reaches down to scratch the lab behind the ears. Hugo closes his eyes lazily and leans into the upholstery, making pleased noises. Ben is clearly hitting a sweet spot.

"Miss me?"

He's occupied with his phone, and grunts. "You left?"

I suppress a smile. "Yes. For a few days. You must've been preoccupied."

"You're always here, you've practically become a fixture. I scarcely notice when you come and go."

"It's good to know I am appreciated."

Ben smirks into his phone. Then –

"Are you going to put the kettle on?"

**-XXX—**

No questions pass between us about the death of my mother, the circumstances under which Ben may or may not have known her, what I encountered in London, or any other affairs in relation to her. Part of me wonders if he's simply fielding any questions I might have about his knowledge of her. I do not mind in the least. For the time being I simply allow myself the luxury of assuming he saw her in concert, or knew the friends of a friend. From here, we can move forward. We can get on with our acquaintance without the mystery (well, the mysteries that weren't already apparent – things like his past and interest in local murders I can live with).

I'm perfectly okay with this arrangement of selective mention. That is, until Ben all but drags me to the police station.

**-XXX-**

A few days later I'm just past the gate when Ben practically flies from the house. He's dressed in a smart suit jacket with blue shit, no tie, and pressed trousers. Eyes very alert, he barks, "Your car!"

"Excuse me?"

"I need your car. I need to go to the police station."

I blink. "What? Why? Did you have a break in?"

Exasperated, he tosses his hands. "Do you see any evidence of a break in? No, now give me your car, Viola!"

"I am not going to just hand my car over to you." I cross my arms. "I'll go with you."

This doesn't seem to displease him, so we're off. Thankfully, Dad is in the office, so it's no trouble to slip in for my keys. Ben wants to drive, but I insist. The ride is nearly fifteen minutes. Ben is silent the entire time, refusing to give me any explanations. We park and he's out before I've even turned the ignition off. Weary already, I follow.

At the receptionist's desk, he speaks swiftly, disregarding the fact that the woman is on the telephone. "I need to speak with Sergeant Waverly. It's urgent."

Behind the Plexiglas , the woman's eyes are wide. "I can't – he's in interrogation."

"Then get him out of it."

"No, sir, I -"

Ben spin and starts down the hall, apparently intent on finding the sergeant himself. With an apologetic look to the receptionist, I follow. We stop before one door. Ben listens for a moment, then bursts in.

With the swing of the door comes the sight of two officers – one I assume to be Waverly – and Tyson. Tyson, the night cook from the pub. The cook with the famous Shepard's pie. I'm shocked. Why is Tyson being questioned?

"Mr. Holly?" The bulkier man, who I assume to be the sergeant, rises first. "What are you doing here? We're in the middle of an interrogation."

"You've got the wrong man," Ben says shortly. He nods to Tyson. "It's not the cook, it's the barman. The cook was visiting his mother. You'll find the receipt for a gin and tonic in Ms. McLarney's purse, probably the outer pocket. She caught his eye there. Tyson here didn't even see her, his mother had just had a heart attack, he was preoccupied in the back. Distracted enough to burn himself up the arm." Ben points to a shiny scar on Tyson's right hand. "You'll find records at the clinic of treatment for that. A cook with twenty-seven years of experience doesn't just burn himself. Check the bartender."

Everyone in the room is gaping from shock. After a beat, Waverly begins spluttering.

"But – how – you said it was someone from the Cross and Down!"

"I said it was_ someone_, yes," Ben snaps. "But I didn't say it was the cook. The knife used was from a ceramic collection that Mr. Tyson favors, but he's not the only one with access to them. Bring in Eddie Salvers."

At that, Ben turns on his heels and stalks from the room. I awkwardly follow after waving to Tyson. Ben's long strides mean I am practically jogging to keep up with him. All the way outside his face is impassive. I fear he is angry. When he holds his hands out for keys, I pass them over without a word.

I stare as we slide into the vehicle. Once the door shuts, Ben breaks out into something like a smile. Only more…smirky. His hands fist the wheel. "Nearly there," he savors.

I wait till we're on the road to start asking. "What…was that? What did it have to do with the McLarney case? Were they questioning Tyson? What do you have to do with it?"

"Which would you prefer I ask first?" he asks dryly. I cast him a _"oh-just-get-on-with-it" _look. Smiling slightly, Ben say, "Susan McLarney was stabbed seven times last May by Eddie Salver after they met in the pub. He followed her to the beach after he left the pub. He had several of the kitchen's knives with him because the sharpener at the pub was broken, they were waiting for a replacement to ship, and he had volunteered to take them home to sharpen – the hostess told me as much when I started asking about the butchering and the different cuts of meat. They're very proud of their meat at the Cross and Down. On the night of the murder, Eddie Salvers was working the bar. He started 'coming on' to the youbg Ms. McLarney. She initially returned the affections, then, for whatever reason, rejected his advances later in the evening when they went for a moonlight stroll along the shore. I'm guessing she might have found the knives, perhaps while they were using his pack as a pillow, something like that to set her off. In a rage, your bartender struck out. Susan grabbed on of the knives for defense. He wrestled it away from her and…."

Ben drifts off, leaving the proceedings to my imagination. "He knew that hiding the knife in the sand or the ocean would be futile, so he left the girl on the beach, and took the knife home. He cleaned it, and it's being used in the kitchen to this day."

My mouth is agape. "How…do you know that, Ben?"

"Deduction," he answers smoothly.

"But…but you…some of those things….how long have you been doing this? Investigating Susan's death?"

His eyes narrow. "A while."

"And the police, they just listen to you? Just like that?"

"Why should they not?"

I cannot answer this. Shaking my head, I bite my lip. "The police just don't take advice of random guys. Ben. Who are you?"

At this, Ben sighs. "You've seen me work, Viola, surely you can believe that I could figure out who murder a girl on a beach two years ago."

"Yes, I don't doubt you. I can't. But, Ben, why do the police believe you?"

For a moment, my companion is silent. Very quietly, he says, "They know I'm right. That's why they believe me."

It's not a true answer. But I let it slide, and focus on the road ahead. Grey sky, barren road, clumpy villages. Basically, my life.

**-XXX-**

"I would not have fancied you for a gardener."

With a small shriek, I jolt at the sound of a clipped voice near my right ear – much, much too near. I fall against a pair of legs standing directly behind me. Craning to look back and up, Ben's upside-down face greets me, amusement stretching his lips. A hand is offered, and I am hauled up, spun in the process so that I am facing him, chests bumping in the motion. My face suddenly feels rather hot.

"You frightened me," I huff. I tuck my hair behind my ears, feeling self-conscious.

"Obviously," he drawls. Brushing my scold aside, he regards my flowerbeds. "This must be a relatively new task to you."

He's saying this, I assume, because he's never seen any evidence of garden maintenance on me, or in the beds. But I am swift to prove him wrong.

"No. I've just started for the year. Dad has been caring for them while I am away." I turn from him – still feeling a little awkward to have been rubbing up against his pecs - to cup one plump bloom, a Don Juan rose of a vivid red. It's wilting in the heat. I'm surprised it's lasted this far into summer anyways. My pruning shears tucked into my back pocket, I stoop. "But I normally do all the weeding and pruning and whatnot. I missed it this year, though. It's not the proper season for pruning, but this –" I indicate a few dead twigs. "—is unsightly."

Ben does not respond, but watches me clip the twigs for several moments. I struggle with one particularly thick piece for several seconds before pulling it free, then I look back to my garden's intruder.

"Why are you here?" I wince at my own blunt words. But Ben won't, I think, take them as rude. He might notice that they're a little to the point, but it's his own style, anyways.

A brow is raised with magnificent elegance. "I was out walking. Saw a stooping figure in the Carters's garden. Assumed it could only be you, the lady of the house. And I thought I might drop in. After all, you do it me all the time."

He's certainly right about that.

"Well, you're lucky Dad isn't home," I grumble. Ben has a nack for making me feel particularly…examined.

"I don't know what kind of grudge you think your father has against me, Viola, but I am tempted to believe it is entire of your own mind's making. He has no reason to dislike me."

On this subject I stay silent (partially because he is right, but it isn't him I fear upsetting Dad, it's _me_ meeting with him. In theory my father has no issue with Ben. Just with me _spending time_ with Ben), half-sighing as I stand. To my surprise, Ben offers a hand.

"Do you want to come inside?"

"Yes."

I lead him in through the back, disregarding boots and pruners in the mudroom, tossing gloves on the breakfast bar once we reach the kitchen. Once safely indoors, Ben takes a stool at our island. Though he doesn't openly show it, I know he is intently examining _everything _in our kitchen. I leave him at it and turn to the stove. Without inquiring after his want of tea, I fill the kettle and set it upon the stove, then turn back to my guest.

"I'm going to run up for a quick wash, okay?"

He nods, currently occupied with a scan of our toaster. I dash up stairs and return when the kettle emits it's high-pitched wail. Ben is, of course, ignoring it, so I remove the thing from the kettle and fill the pot. While we wait for it to brew, I offer to take Ben on a short tour. "Because if I don't you'll probably poke around anyways." He smirks slightly, just furthering my point.

We tour the office, the mudroom, downstairs bath, foyer, and finally the parlor. At each place, Ben does a solid scan of the perimeter, eyes occasionally alighting on a particular object, lips tugging into a smile. It's odd – he seems to draw information from the weirdest stuff. Door hinges, scuffs on molding, shoes placement, trinkets, etc. I don't question, nor do I speak much except to say, "This is the mudroom. We do laundry back here," and so on.

It's in the parlor that he finds something of real interest. Our piano forte. Running his fingers along the key case, he lets his gaze linger upon the slightly-dusty surface.

"You've not played in a while," he remarks.

"I've not felt the need to," I tell him quietly. "I haven't felt the music."

A fellow musician, he nods without looking at me. Then, abruptly, "Will you play for me?"

Surprised for the second time today, I too touch the case. "I don't…."

"I've played for you." It's an accusation.

"But I never requested," I point out. "You've always just been happening to messing around with your violin."

He makes a disgruntled noise indicating offense. "Viola, play something."

"After tea," I hedge.

He is determined. "We'll take tea while you play."

"Ben, I'm not in the mood."

"Viola," he says in a very, very soft voice that is entirely unfamiliar, yet extremely effective in persuading me that he _deserves _to hear me play. The fiend uses those bright eyes, boring them into my own. "Indulge a guest."

With a sigh, I return to the kitchen. Ben does not follow. I fill beakers, a plate of cream cakes, and trek back into the parlor. I find my most honored guest has perched his gangly form on our settee. Pursing my lips, I hand him the mug and the cakes. He accepts solemnly, allows me to take a few sips of my own beverage, then nods to the piano. I begrudgingly move to the instrument, taking a seat at the bench with as much grace as I can muster – which isn't much, considering.

I warm up a little first with a few smaller songs. Then, taking an unsteady breath, I begin.

The piece I select is Chopin's Opus 28, number 15. Better known as _Raindrop. _It's a piece I know well. I allow my fingers to caress the keys, closing my eye as the music fills me.

It is hard to describe what goes through me when I play. The process is something vague, set apart, almost sacred. I love the feeling. It's something like a blank mind. Peaceful.

I think it makes Dad sad to hear me play. It reminds him of my mother. She played too, but she specialized in vocal music. When they lived together that's how they spent their evenings – playing and singing duets. I can't sing, so at least there is that, but he is still reminded. I used to hate playing around him. Yet he would insist, in the evenings, or on dull Sundays, that I practice as he browsed the paper, or balanced the checkbook. _"Gives the room a bit of atmosphere," _he would tell me. I haven't played for him since I returned for the summer. And I certainly won't be now.

Ben is right. Playing is something I could do for the rest of my life. I love music. I love the feeling I get when I become so absorbed in what I am creating. And I'm _good _at it. Since I was ten I've been invited to play at ladies functions, teas, or at church events. I'm not bad. I could do this for my life. Or a while, at least.

Seven minutes pass. I finally let out the final notes, then sit back. For several seconds I breath. Then I look back to Ben.

"Happy?"

He does appear pleased. "Yes." A beat. "You're rather gifted, aren't you?"

It's not really a question. I incline my head. "I'm not bad."

I move back to the settee, picking up my beaker. Ben shifts when I sink into the upholstery beside him. I sip slowly. The tea is lukewarm, but I drink nonetheless. Ben relaxes. He selects a cream cake, but then seems to pause before he takes a bite.

"Thank you."

This is said softly without inflection, yet I still manage to choke on my tea. Ben has not once thanked me. Not for tea, not for grocery delivery, driving him places, not for making sandwiches, handing him books or pen, or _anything. _It's something I picked up quickly, something I have accepted as simply Ben. He doesn't thank people. That's not the worst trait a person might have, so I've accepted it.

"Come again?" I choke, pounding my chest with a fist. Ben looks on with an expression of distaste.

"I said thank you," he repeats, lips twisting in a frown.

"Oh, you are…welcome."

His brows rise. "Problem?"

I clear my throat. Picking up a cream cake, I take a bite. There is a moment where he's watching me expectantly as I chew. I swallow, smiling lightly. "Nope."

"Good." He leans over after I take another bite. I stop, mid-chew, when he pushes back a few locks of my hair from my cheeks, tucking them behind my ear. A look of high concentration has overwhelmed his expression. Confused and more than a little surprise, I sit stock-still as Ben delicately places the brown-black strands back, letting his fingers linger on the shell of my ear. This happens very, very slowly.

Just as abruptly, he's retracted his hand, and has turned back to his tea. I'm left to stare, sincerely confused, but quite enjoying the heat rising in my stomach.

**-XXX-**

** Though not a hugely long, this chapter is loaded with quite a lot of information. Sorry.**

**I hope everyone is having a good week! Have a good fourth, my American friends!**

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take and answer them all! **


	11. Chapter 11

**Silhouettes Chapter 11 **

**A few random details: I picked Sussex because the canon indicates that's where Doyle had Sherlock retiring, and I thought it would be nice to get out of London for a bit. **

**At the moment I am currently working on chapter 17. I think we might end up at a nice, round 20. Hopefully. Initially I'd meant this to be a one shot…then about 15 chapters…and here we are. **

**Quick note on updates: As I start work next week I'm going to try to A) wrap this up, and B) start posting more frequently. Look for a new chapter as soon as Saturday. **

**-XXX-**

I'm standing before the foyer mirror, arranging my hair, when Dad stops me. For the first time in ages I've done a sort of bun-thing. It's tricky look, and I'm making sure everything is in place before I go out for the day. Pinning bits and smoothing, and so on. He lingers in the threshold, watching me for several moments, then, remembering himself, asks, "Are you going down to you friend's?"

"You mean Ben's?"

Dad visibly winces. "Yes."

I frown at my reflection. "I really can't see why you don't like him, Dad. You've barely met him."

"I've heard enough about him," my father mutters. "He's an odd duck, that one, and I'd prefer if my daughter didn't associate with him. Despite is weirdness, he is a good deal older than you, Viola, and that tends to worry a fathers heart."

"Worry no longer, as I've said before, I'm not _seeing _him," I say dryly, emphasizing lowly. "So what if he's a bit different? I like that. He's not like everyone else around here."

"That's what worries me."

I turn to Dad. "He's a good person. Interesting, too."

He sighs. "He takes my little girl away from me all hours of the day. Is that enough for you."

"No." I cross to kiss him on the cheek. "Sorry."

Squeezing me gently, my father gives a half-hearted smile, though he still looks pretty unhappy. Satisfied enough, I head for the door, stooping for my shoes and Hugo's leash. But I am delayed.

"Oh, I'd forgotten." Dad moves to the office, popping back out with a few letters. "This came for Holly yesterday. I always forget he doesn't pick up his mail, you know."

"Yes, I know." I take the letters, flipping through. I know all too well.

"It's not nice to look at people's mail Viola Carters!" Dad scolds. "Friends or not!"

I ignore him. There are two letters and a post card. This is odd – Ben's never received anything more than letters, all bland white envelopes address in that girly hand. This dark card is from the British Museum, and features a skull. Intrigued, I flip it over. The address is written in a formal, yet painfully masculine hand. But there is nothing written, no "_Enjoyed our London holiday, hope you're doing well, Love Aunt Bev," _or anything of the sort. It's simply blank.

_"Curious."_

The sudden impression that this is a very, very important card falls upon me.

"I've got to go," I say abruptly. "He'll want this."

Hugo is left behind. I take my time about crossing the hills, however, trying not to get too excited. It is probably nothing. Yet, a tightness in my chest makes me think otherwise.

I knock. Ben doesn't answer, so I let myself in. He's dressed today, properly in a suit and shoes. He glances up from the computer swiftly. Something flickers in his gaze. "Viola."

I haven't seen him since he came by and insisted I play the piano. Three days, or so.

"Hello." I shrug off my jacket. It's July, and I'm still carrying around a coat everywhere. "Are you busy?"

The laptop is instantly pushed back. "No," he says automatically.

The question was asked out of courtesy. He's always busy.

"Oh, that's…good. I didn't want to bother me."

"I've tolerated your bother before."

He's in a good mood, then. Though, perhaps a little on-edge. I move from the door into the parlor. Ben rises quickly. Stopping just at the armchair, I finger one of the wing's seams, peering about the room. It's just the same as always – a little messy, but cozy and plain. Ben seems to follow my gaze until it trails back to him.

"What's do I have the pleasure of owing this visit to?" His words are oddly…nice. Not at all Ben.

"I…ah. Letters." I pull the envelopes and postcard from my back pocket.

"Thank you." He accepts, putting them on the table without even glancing at them. Instead, he's still looking at me. In the transfer of mail, his fingers brushed mine, and I now find them being held, tentatively.

He has thanked me again. I'd be concerned for his health – it's a very un-Ben-like thing to thank me from delivering mail – except he seems _fine_. At the moment he's got a very intent look on his face, very similar to the expressions he makes when in the midst of a particularly thrilling experiment.

Just as he had awkwardly moved my hair and brushed my ear from our last encounter, I feel my stomach and chest warm. I find myself being drawn closer towards him, the hand holding his moving of it's own will. Our fingers combined move to rest against the center of his chest.

I have not been this close to Benjamin Holly for such an extended period of time, ever. We have always maintained a respectable distance. Closeness like this is utterly foreign. From this distance I can smell his cologne, pick out notes of bergamot and lemon and something spicy. My throat catches as I met his eyes. They're strangely bright. I feel lightheaded -

A hand has my chin, and I'm suddenly pressed against Ben, my lips on his. I gasp into him as his lips move against mine. It's a gentle kiss – not especially demanding (as I would've expected from him), or passionate (which I would have never predicted). The warmth in my stomach swells wonderfully. His chest is against mine, the friction of our shirts making soft rustling sounds. The hand at my chin moves down to my waist, serving to pull me closer. I squeak at the motion. It's as if Ben wishes to press me into him, to completely engulf himself in me. He tastes of peppermint and coffee. I inhale.

He pulls back, a little dazed. I'm sure I am reflecting a similar expression. One hand goes to my hair. "Why have you got this bun-thing?" He says this like it's the silliest thing in the world. Like, why ever would I impede his ability to put his hands through my hair with such a style?

Of course Ben would ask. "I don't know –"

The pins are soon removed, and he is running fingers through my locks, inhaling. Presented with the opportunity, I occupy myself with his neck and the space around his jaw. Too soon, he's lifting my head again, lips pressed to mine once more. The kiss is more fervent this time. My response has reassured him – funny, as Ben has never struck me as the type to require reassurance. He works my mouth open, deepening the kiss. I am still shocked, but I respond enthusiastically. This sends Ben into a feverous state. He twists us around so that I am the one with my back to the desk. My bum is pressed against the edge. Around me, he shuts the laptop, then lifts to set me onto the top of the desk. My legs go 'round his waist. His lower lip is between my teeth. Ben tears away to give my collarbone attention.

I've had my share of kisses. But this beats them all. It's as though Ben is predicting what my wants are, what I shall do next, what turns me. He's a perfectly coordinated partner, nothing like the blundering schoolboy kisses I'd had in my youth, or the commandeering attacks of college boys. This is something new and a terribly wonderful. It feels more adult than anything I've experienced before.

Cool hands run the length of my sides. I press into him further. Several of the top buttons of his shirt are undone, and I explore the length of chest before pulling his shirt from his trousers so that I might skim the surface of his abs. His hips buck slightly. A warm hardness presses into me, inviting. It's driving me positively mad. His pelvis grinds into me again, only this time it isn't any brief thrust but an extended relish of motion, something to make me sink weakly against his chest. I make a sound in the back of my throat, something between a cry and a moan.

Ben lifts his head, pausing from his kisses to look at me. He's wearing something of a half-smirk, though it is too gentle to be smarmy. Cupping my face, he strokes my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. A soft sigh-like sound of pleasure escapes me. Though his pace is too measure for my liking the teasing, slowness of everything brings such a high rise within me. I shift upwards to capture him again, biting his lower lip. The feel of him against me is intoxicating. I want more.

"Ben," I murmur against his lips, smiling into him. "Ben, you're bloody fantastic."

He doesn't respond. At least, not in words. He kisses my jawline slowly, teasing. I curl my fingers in his hair, tilting my head back and arching my back. We're getting carried away. My skin is blazing. Painfully aroused, I am inches from letting my hands wander – wander to where they might give us both relief. I'm scared to go much further. With great hesitation, I pull back. His grey-blue-grey eyes, darker than I've ever seen them, flicker over my face once we've created some distance. Satisfied with what he sees, he allows the space to lie.

I am certain the sight of me hot, bothered, and dying for a release is delightful to him. I can just imagine my kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair. Definitely a pleasing sight for Ben – especially seeing as he put me here. _"Arse." _

Both of my hands rest on his chest. I straighten the fabric, feeling my skin cool. I can't look him in the eye, but I feel his are intently on my, gaging my emotion.

Something needs to be said. It feels silly to discuss what has just occurred – there really isn't anything to _say_. You can't thank a person for kissing you. And I've never concerned myself with those post-make-out cuddles. I would wait for him, but knowing Ben –

"Mail!" I blurt, my head shooting up so quickly I almost knock his skull. Despite the added height of the desk, Ben still towers over me. I feel back for the envelopes and postcard, drawing them up. "You haven't – you haven't read your letters! You usually always do, right away."

He casts me a _"I-was-a-tad-distracted" _look before plucking up the postage. But he simply sets it back on the desk, and leans into me. I have to crane my neck to look at him. Fingers ghost my neck. Evidently he wishes for more distraction. He still looks smug.

I have to all but lock myself to the top of the desk to prevent action on the urge to launch myself at him. I colour. "It could be something important," I say.

"Are you so desperate to send me away?" he asks, lowering lips to my neck. I gasp as a charge is sent through me.

"No. But Ben –" I mouth wordlessly when he nips at the spot where the neck meets the shoulders. The pressure I'd felt against me is there again, tantalizing, teasing. Pressing in just the right way as to make me shift closer, allowing more access. "Oh, Ben, God, -" Another slow grind against me. He's merciless. Manipulative bastard. "We – are going very fast."

"Viola," he murmurs seriously against my skin (how someone can impart such a serious tone while partaking of such behavior is beyond me, but Benjamin Holly manages). "In approximately one month you will be returning to university. Based on the average length of time we spend together in a week that gives us eighty-four hours in one another's company over that month. I would much prefer it doing this –" He assaults my mouth with his in a kiss that makes me weak enough to sink against him in support. "—that reading letters. So do us a favor and shut up."

I open my mouth to protest, to say that we're getting caught up, that I need to talk, that we're going too fast. But he seals his mouth over mine. Soon I'm holding onto him with no intention of letting go. My chest hurts with pleasure. Things are just getting heated when he pulls away, moving towards the stairs, I am left, very confused, on the desk. At the first step he turns back, brows furrowed.

"Coming?"

He doesn't need to ask twice.

**-XXX-**

** WOOOOOOOO, SEXY TIME!**

**Betcha didn't expect that, eh? Eh?**

** Okay, so my make-out scenes may not be the best. Sorry my loves. Just in case, anyways, we're gonna put the rating up to M. Though, I'm sad to say there won't be anything steamy in the chapter following this one. Sorry, dearies. **

**Whatcha think? Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all! **


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow, quite a response! Sorry my replies have been slow! I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

**-XXX-**

I don't sleep, but fall into a sort of drowsy state of half-awake. Dazed, I suppose. I lie, curled between the cool sheets, watching the rise and fall of Ben's chest. He isn't asleep, either, but lying flat, stretched out, his head against the pillow and turned towards the window. The grey sky is reflected in his eyes, which are carefully blank. We don't touch, which is perfectly fine. I'm not a great cuddler.

At some point, Ben rises and dresses. He disappears downstairs while I stay in bed, comfortable, sleepy. I don't get up, but settle in further.

I consider the circumstances. No regrets surface, but I do feel some kind of embarrassment, yet I flush with something akin to pride. I stretch, wincing. We went at it three times, so I'm a little sore. But it's a nice soreness. I massage my muscles briefly before falling back into a light slumber.

Sometime later, I wander downstairs, having dressed myself. It's almost dark outside of the warm cottage. Ben stands before the fire, silhouetted against the yellow light of the flames. His back is to the stairs and he is standing very, very, very still. Hovering at the threshold, I watch for a moment, then call to him softly.

He doesn't move, so I go to him. Once I've angled myself to face him, I can see the postcard he holds delicately between two long-fingered hands, pensive. He's not looking at the blank card, but staring into the tongues of the fire.

"Ben?"

He blinks, jerking slightly. But he still doesn't look up. I wait. I wait so long I'm forced, so I curl up on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me. Ben begins pacing abruptly. He moves around at a fevered manner. Troubled, Benjamin Holly's brow creases. Silent, I wonder what could have possibly put him into such a state – there is, after all, nothing written on that card. Perhaps it was that very emptiness, or the content of the letters that have upset him.

After nearly ten minutes of watching Ben pace, I shift, deciding to ask.

"What's the problem?"

He does not relent in his paces, though he does pause, like he's only just realized I am here. After another round of the room he stops before me.

"Viola," he begins, tone clipped. His eyes are dark in shadow. The firelight illuminates his high cheeks and pursed lips nicely. "I've received a correspondence that is quite alarming." Here he taps the blank card against his fingers. "I will be rather detained for the next several days."

I blink. He doesn't need to say anymore. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach. "Oh. You'll be busy, of course. So I shouldn't…I'll leave you alone. Right. I'm…I'm sorry."

"It is of no concern," he dismisses. He nears, stopping just before me. Lowering himself to a squat, he is level with me. With no preamble, he cups my face and kisses me. There is a swiftness and edge of desperation to his touch now. He all but engulfs me, letting one of his hands slide down to fold me into him. The other hand goes to the base of my neck, pulling me closer. I shift in my seat, sighing. The sinking has evaporated. Doubt no longer reigns. Ben has put some much into this kiss. I cannot compute the message, however, so I tentatively respond with as much comfort as I can muster.

When he falters, I hook my arms around his neck. "I'm sorry, Ben. Can you tell me what happened?" In his aura of mystery I feel like perhaps this is yet another one of those things that will not receive a straight answer.

He breathes against my cheek, but says nothing. I stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. This does nothing to assuage him.

He pulls away. Standing, Ben steps back. I stand after him.

"I need to go," I say awkwardly. "I'll see you – I'll see you sometime, Ben."

I leave him by the fire after pressing a final kiss to his cold lips and forehead.

**-XXX-**

The following day, Friday, I escape my office work to see Ben. This time Hugo accompanies me. I cannot stay for long, but I need to see him. While he virtually asked that I not bother him, but after yesterday, and then dealing with my father this morning, I have been pushed to misery. Dad was thrashing about, disgruntled with a few late payments and finicky tenants. Combined with his fragility following his estranged wife's passing, any kind of irritating dealings makes him a positive beast about the house.

When the cottage comes into view, I feel my breathing slow. I pray that nothing will have changed. That, despite the events of yesterday, we'll still be on the terms of before. Childish expectations of housekeeping and comfortably silent afternoon teas.

Of course, but what I want and what is reality often don't reside together. I prepare myself as we trot up the hill.

The property feels mysteriously empty. As he all but asked me to leave him be, I decide knocking is probably best. Two sharp raps and a minute later I'm concerned that he's not heard. I knock again. Nothing.

Hugo sniffles the ground, making a slight sound as he trails along after me. I have to pull him to follow, chiding gently until he's at my ankles again.

Exasperated (and a little embarrassed, as I believe this could be Ben's "nice" way of saying _"go away") _I enter. Hugo hesitates in the threshold. I drop his leash.

Once inside, I am stuck by the quiet. And then, past the foyer, there I find –

- emptiness.

Everything is gone. The books. The laptop. A few of the cushions. All of the papers. The silver dagger letter opener. Ben's slippers that often lay askew by the fire. The kettle is missing from the stove. No dishes in the sink. Everything that had been his is gone.

Dazed, as though stricken by dreams, I move through every room of the house, my hand brushing over table tops and walls. Empty. It is entirely, pitifully, desolately empty.

Hugo whines anxiously when I drift back to the main room. His tail thuds nervously against the wood of the floor, keeping a nervous rhythm, and he nears when I sink to the couch. Nudging my hand with his skull, he succeeds in coaxing me into stroking his silky brown ears. Aside from this, all I can do is stare dead ahead, my mind churning with the speed of a tortoise. Ever so slowly, my thoughts stretch and combine into a conclusion.

_"Gone." _

Benjamin Holly is _gone. _For, it would appear, good.

Without a note or call or text or email or smoke signal or a single goddamn word, he has exited my life in a definite way.

I allow myself time to mull this over. It isn't the end of the world. But it sure feels like it. Or, at least, the end of this stage of my life.

What I am feeling isn't quite heartbreak – my affection for Ben runs deep, but _love _isn't a word I would use to describe those feelings – but something a little more shallow, something superficial to the makeup of my emotions. I am damaged. I am hurt. At this moment my very bones ache, my lungs weep, my limbs feel suspiciously heavy. And I shall live.

Nothing left to do, I rise, picking up Hugo's leash with me. I make for the door, pausing to look back, when I spot a scrap of white on the mantle. Crossing, I hesitate before picking up the envelope. With slightly shaky fingers, I lift the flap and remove a crisp check for the total month's rent. I squeeze the sides of the envelope, searching for something – anything – which might tell me _why_, direct me towards a cause.

There is nothing.

In the envelope, that is. When I turn the check over, I find a sticky note folded and stuck to the back. Written in a sloppy – yet elegant – hand are the words: _"I leave with no regrets."_

I want to punch him. Is he leaving with _no regrets_? Or does he not regret _leaving? The arse. _

The check is tucked into my pocket. I leave the note behind. I lock the door and tread home. I set the check on Dad's desk wordlessly. He glances up from the phone, brow furrowing in confusion as he reads it. When it hit him, he opens his mouth to speak, surprised, but I hold up a hand. Wordlessly, I turn for the start for the stairs. For a few hours I attempt to read. But the simple statement won't quit reverberating in my mind until I fall into a restless slumber.

_ "I leave with no regrets." _

_**-**_**XXX-**

**What can I say? I love a good twist. **

**Thoughts? **


	13. Chapter 13

**Silhouettes Chapter 12 **

**Okay, so I understand some of you might be upset, understandably. But never fear. This isn't the last we've seen of Mr. Holmes.**

**I greatly appreciate all of your feedback. Thank you so much. I apologize for my tardiness in responses, I try to answer all of the new ones before I post again.**

**-XXX-**

Next week the _Post _runs a very big headline: MCLARNEY MURDER SOLVE, LOCAL BARTENDER ARRESTED. Below the black print is a mug shot of Eddie Salvers. Dad shakes his head, murmurs what a pity it is, and polishes off his toast. I make no comment.

When I run into the shop for a few groceries, Marge stops me at the register. Oh-so-casually, she asks after my father, being sure to drop her condolences for my runaway mother's passing. I make a few non-committal noises. Then, of course, she moves on to the topic of Ben.

"I heard Mr. Holly has moved out of that hill cottage of yours?" When I don't respond right away, she _tsks_ loudly. "Ah, well, what can you expect of those seasonal people. Can't be expected to hang 'round. Still, it's a little early – we've still several weeks left."

She waits for me to agree. I continue browsing the gum selection. Marge goes on, not discouraged.

"But I would think…well, it seemed as if the two of you were getting rather close. Dinners in the pub. Country walks. Afternoons at the beach. That sort of thing."

If she expects me to elaborate, the shopkeeper is bound for disappointment. And, for the record, it was one dinner. One dinner that end very, very badly.

"Yeah," I say shortly. "It would seem that way."

Without any further response, I scoop up my bags and exit the shop.

Marge later rings Mr. Davies's wife, whose husband then calls my father to inform him of my rudeness. That evening I hear Dad on the phone in hallway, quietly informing his friend that Marge is "a nosy old crow whose diet of gossip was offensive to Vi's loss, thankyouverymuch." He set the receiver down without slamming it, though the firmness is clear. For several minutes he stands in the hall, facing the phone, staring wearily at the device. I creep back up the stairs on light feet, though with a heavy heart. My life is starting to ruin some aspect's of Dad's. Davies might not speak to my father for weeks.

For the next week and a half I am allowed to be a recluse. It's a rare move from my father – typically he is all about being a helicopter parent, constantly hovering. I suppose Dad figures that the death of my mother combined with the abrupt disappearance (though, when is any disappearance not abrupt?) of the person suspected to be my beau has sent me into a kind of shock. While the blow has left me winded, I'm not so surprised as I am confused. But I accept this time to recuperate. For the week I am left to my devices, which means waking late enough to blink back white morning light, rising slowly, taking coffee with toast in bed, napping midday, reading for long hours, playing for even longer hours, and generally avoiding people. I don't go into town once, nor do I walk Hugo, who stays near me almost constantly. It's as though he senses a change and is unsure of his role, only that I am pained and he is tasked as mine to care for me.

Most of this reclusive lifestyle revolves around my bed. And most of the activity taking place within the confines of the full-size mattress is either reading or sleeping. It's nice.

On Sunday, a little more than two weeks after I arrived at our hill-top rental to find the tenant missing, Dad enters my room. It is almost eleven. I've been awake since ten-thirty and slow to rise. At the moment I'm prop against pillows, watching the view from my window. I can see ocean. When Dad approaches the bed, I don't look away. He sits at the end, cautiously applying his weight to the mattress.

"Viola," he starts with great care. "It's been about two weeks now. I think you need to…get yourself together. Carry on."

I look at him, my eyes seeing but not quite absorbing. I let him go on.

"School will be starting soon. You've got preparing to do, for classes and what not. And there are still some matters about your mother's estate." He hesitates. "I know it's terrible, Vi, but you've got to move past this. He left, and sod him! You deserved a bit of notice. Seeing as he didn't give none to you, I'd say his respect was beneath you. You deserve better. I hate to see what a wreck he's left you. It isn't fair, not in the least. If he were a gentleman…but he isn't. You're scaring me, though, love, with stayin' in your room and whatnot. I thought you'd come out, in your own time, but it's been almost two weeks."

It's the first time he's directly mentioned Ben. I find myself blinking. Awareness rising within me.

When I don't respond, Dad shifts uncomfortably. "Vi?"

I rise slowly. Crossing to the window, I let my fingers rest on the sill, standing on my toes to peer out. The sky is so blue, with just a faint line of whispy blue-white towards the horizon, incoming clouds. The cliffs are a solid white, melting into the deep, rolling blue of the sea. From behind me, Dad calls out softly again. "Viola?"

"I will resolve to be better, Dad," I say. I do not turn from the window. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

"It's nothing –"

But it is. Guilt blossoms within my chest. He's already had to deal with a dead, estranged wife this summer, now an over-the-top reaction from his dumped daughter? He's the one who deserves better. I cross to him, looping my arms around his shoulders in a backwards hug, kissing the top of his head affectionately.

"You're pretty amazing, Dad," I murmur.

I can feel him smile.

"Only because I have such a brilliant daughter. Now, would you care for some breakfast?"

**-XXX-**

Over breakfast, I bring up the topic of school.

"I don't want to keep studying English." I pause. "I want to study music."

He pauses in lifting a forkful of eggs to stare at me. "Music?"

I take a breath. "Yes. Not just to keep my scholarships, not just as a hobby but…for life. I want to study music. Piano."

Luckily, he's still stunned enough to allow me to go on. Hurriedly, I continue.

"But the thing is, the uni I'm currently at, well, their musics programs isn't too good. And you always said if I'm going to go for something, I should go for the best. The best isn't at my current school. It's somewhere else." I lick my lips. "And I think I know where. You remember how I've been asking to move out for a while…."

It's fortunate that Irene left me with something other than her hair. Dad cannot argue that I cannot afford to live on my own, not with my inheritance. We discuss until the coffee is cold. But we both walk away relatively satisfied. In a month. I'll be out of the house again. Away. Far away.

He isn't happy with the arrangements. But he is content enough with my safety. I must make several promises to visit, to write and call, etc. I am glad he's letting me go – when we go down to it, there wasn't such a battle of wills as I had anticipated.

After breakfast, I slip upstairs and start up my laptop. I've got some late application to start.

**-XXX-**

One day I take to walk down to beach and then up the hill. Simply so that I might pass it one more time. I'm on my way to tea with Dr. Potter for the last time before I go off to school. Walking up to the cottage is a little out of my way, but I don't care.

Though nothing has changed, it feels different. Emptier. I stand for a moment, silent, before the walkway. Then I turn away.

With a half hour before Potter expects me, I have just enough time to get down to the beach. For a while I walk along the sand – shoes safely on – and contemplate the horizon. It's all very cliché and a little gloomy and stresses my heart in a tender kind of way. I _miss _Ben. It's been almost three week – three weeks that seem to stretch on forever, minutes passing like slugs on lazily July afternoons. I know I had a life before him. Occupations. Hobbies. But all of that was _boring. _Ben, despite our silent afternoons spent reading, hours passed between us with no communication, was exciting. And I miss him.

When I'm done on the beach I head for Potter's. She's waiting for me, tea already started, a few cakes on the pastry tray in the parlor. I am ushered into the kitchen, seated at her table, and made comfortable. The cool stone house is immaculate. I quickly relax as Dr. Potter begins telling a story about a turtle she's found in the yard whilst gardening. She inquires after my life, and I tell her about my new living situation. I am congratulated.

"You'll do well in a city like that," Potter approves. "I know it's far and foreign, but you're a bright girl, easy to adapt. And oh, you'll love it! I am so happy for you."

"Thank you. I am very excited. It's going to be a lot of work, starting with a new city and a new major, but hopefully worth it."

"It's about time your father let you go. He was doing no one favors, keeping you back like that." She pauses to bite into a cake, savoring the sugary treat a moment before settling back into her seat. "Terrible business about that murder, eh? But I am glad it has been resolved. The poor girl's parents." She _tsks. _Our tea is sipped before she allows, "I never liked that barman. Never could get the proper proportions on a gin and tonic; kept hoping, though, every time I went in."

I can't help it – I laugh.

"How is Benjamin?" she asks casually after a bit of a lull in conversation.. "Keeping busy?"

I freeze briefly. "I…don't know. He left town almost a month ago."

Potter peers at me carefully. I sense she already knew this. Not the type to gossip, the retired professor does still keep an ear out for the comings-and-goings of the village.

"Oh?" A pause. "He doesn't keep in touch?"

Unlike Marge, I know Potter is asking out of a concern for me, not a desire to peddle the next tidbit of gossip. So, with a sigh, I confirm that yes, Ben hadn't written or emailed or texted or called or anything at all. And that he had, in fact, left without so much as a goodbye. Potter listens, silent, brows rising. When I finish, I take a long draft of my tea, then set the china on the table and stare into the amber liquid.

"Well," Potter says slowly. "That is unfortunate. Why do you think he left so abruptly? I should think, considering your relationship, that he would at least afford you a goodbye."

"Yeah, so would I, but maybe not to Ben," I reply quietly. "I don't know. I can't really speculate, except to think something back home – wherever that might be – called him away. He'd gotten a few letters, the night before. I delivered them. After he read them, he got kind of strange and seemed agitated. The next thing I knew, I came 'round the next day and he was completely gone."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

The doctor muses on this. "You don't imagine he's come into trouble? Perhaps he_ cannot_ contact you?"

"I've not considered that," I admit. "It just sort of struck me as a family emergency. But even so, not matter which it is…. It's troubling."

"Oh, yes. What if he should come looking for you, my dear, while you're away?"

This hasn't occurred to me either. "Oh," I say hastily. "I doubt that will happen."

Her lips purse in a vague amusement. "Never say never, my dear. Now have another cake – you're looking peckish."

**-XXX-**

** Well, I am almost done with chapter 20. Due to a few logistically issues, I believe we'll meet 22-24 chapters. Probably 23. We'll just have to see. I am terrible at predicting this stuff. And I've got a lot of stuff going on…job starts on Thursday. Class stuff. And other general things. So we'll see. **

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I eventually answer them all! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Silhouettes Chapter 14 **

**Ah, such a lovely response! I'm glad I haven't lost you to my twists and musings. **

**Hope everyone is having a good summer holiday (if you're on summer holiday, like me).**

**-XXX-**

My mother's house sits empty, looking a little forlorn next to its neighbors. No flowers sit in the window boxes, a silver letters do not shine with polish, and no one has swept the stoop in a long time.

That must change soon, though. Through her lawyers I have secured a sort of rental deal with a family who is coming to from Germany. A professor, on sabbatical, with his wife and son. A small family, perfect. Just what I was looking for. As I'll not be using the house – for now, anyways - it ought to have someone in it. I am too sentimental to sell. Renters will keep the bills paid for a while.

I'm leaving the upkeep in the care of the firm. Today I'm in to scour for personal goods that will either go with me or be put into storage.

There are no pictures to take, but I put a few trinkets – a silver clock on the bathroom counter, a few pieces of jewelry, the well-worn copy of Keats from the beside table, among other things – in the "to-come-with-me" box. Most everything else on the more personal side (clothing, shoes, books, etc) is destined to be put in storage until I can sort through it.

It's all sort of a rush, the process of setting up renters. But I would rather get it done before I leave. Business of this nature doesn't sound like it would be too fun to conduct over the phone or emails.

I leave with the box beneath my arm. I let my feet drag a little as I walk down the neat block, passing white house after white house. I don't look back; but I do breath deeply, resolving to carry on. Exciting things are around the corner for me.

**-XXX-**

When the time comes, Dad sees me to the train station. He insists on carrying my duffle bag all the way to the platform. It would be embarrassing, except it's not. I hug him goodbye for nearly a minute. He pulls back with unusually bright eyes. My heart aches to see him so emotional. I hope he doesn't cry here.

"I'll be back 'round the holidays," I promise. "And I'll write and video call all the time. You'll get positively sick of me."

He chuckles weakly at that. "I wouldn't."

"Think of it this way – with me gone, you can finally make the moves on that post woman."

He gives me a look that clearly says _"Enough-out-of-you-young-lady-I-am-trying-to-have- a-moment." _Then Dad reaches into his jacket pocket. A small, brown package is produced.

"I thought I might get you a little something," he says. "For the occasion. But don't open it here, wait till you're on the train. Don't want you to get all weepy until you're safely in your compartment."

I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes – if anyone is going to be getting "weepy" it's him, and he's already practically there.

"Thanks, Dad." I carefully tuck the small rectangular package into one of the pockets on my backpack. Somewhere ahead of us, a shrill whistling sound.

"I guess this is it," Dad says awkwardly. "I'll – I'll miss you, Vi."

I give him one last hug. "You too, Dad," I murmur into his chest, allowing the warm, strong arms of my father embrace me one last time before I step into adulthood. "And…thanks. Thanks a lot. I know this is hard on you."

"Go on," he says gruffly. I kiss him on the cheek, haul up my bag, and climb aboard.

**-XXX-**

The apartment is small, yes, but _mine. _Onmy first day I am left alone in the front room – a mixed affair meant to house a kitchen, dining area, and parlor room – surrounded by cardboard boxes and a fresh feeling of independence. I savored it for several minutes before beginning to unpack. I soon tire; but weariness typical after a day of travel. I at least have enough energy to find my bedding, throw my sheets on the mattress, shower, and make myself a bowl of soup.

It's odd, being on my own. I am alone, truly alone, for the first time…ever. No roomates. No family. Just me. Me, and my potted fern.

Dad had offered to let me take Hugo, but I declined. He's no urban dog, a country creature at heart who needs more freedom than my one-bedroom flat could ever offer. Besides, I didn't want to leave Dad completely alone.

I find I cannot sleep. After rummaging around, I find a book among my boxes – _The Catcher in the Rye _– and settle down to read the first chapter. I drift off soon after, clutching the yellowed novel to my chest. When I wake the next day, it has fallen to the floor. My neck aches from sleeping on a propped-up pillow. But I feel a little comfortable at last.

Slowly, I make myself at home. I unpack the living room first, and though it takes me an hour I'm left with a sparse setting of an armchair, futon, bookshelf, and a trunk sitting square in the middle, to used as a coffee table. Then I turn to the the kitchen, stacking my small collection of plastic dishes and thrift-store casserole dishes in the cabinets. There isn't much to do in the dining room, except perhaps throw a tablecloth over the scratched round four-person table. Next is the bedroom. My clothes take the most time – an hour and a half to unfold, hang, or refold. In the end I have a reasonably organized closet and set of drawers.

I end up with a sparsely furnished, simple home. It's very much the living space of a poor university student. Exactly what I need. The walls are a bit colorless, but I resolve to hang pictures and few framed posters soon.

Half the day has passed by the time I finish. I take the broken down boxes downstairs for the recycling bins outback. Though I'm just behind the building, I am still overwhelmed by the mere feeling of _vastness _the city projects upon me. After dumping the boxes, I take pause, allowing the awe to sink in. It's best to get used to it now.

I retire early. Tomorrow begins my job hunt, and classes start in only a few days. Though I've done little, I am exhausted. It's the excitement. Hopefully it shall run it's course, leaving enough enthusiasm to motivate me through this first semester. I am scared, of course. But oh-so ready.

**-XXX-**

It takes me two weeks to find a job. Balancing classes, homework, and adjusting to a new city with a job hunt isn't easy, but I figure it's best to learn now, rather than later. I don't really need a job, either, not with the inheritance, however, I find that I want one. To keep my occupied. Too much silence isn't desirable. Besides, I've been working for Dad since I was practically able to walk – to go without some kind of occupation just seems weird to me.

I interview at four different places – a bookshop, a café, a law firm, and a bistro. They're all good interviews; short, to the point, honest. I am nervous, smoothing my charcoal pinstripe pencil skirt far more times than necessary. I have never had to interview for a job properly before – it isn't like Dad ever checking my resume, or my library gig at my old uni required much more than literacy and use of all limbs (for shelving purposes). As it turns out, I'm either under or over qualified for almost every position. I leave the first three interviews in low spirits, trekking to the sidewalk to hail a cab with heavy feet (though that could simply be the snakeskin pump's fault), wondering if I'll manage to find a break before Christmastime.

My final interview, however, goes quite nicely. I am a real hit with the manager, and quickly develop an understanding of what, exactly, they want in their employees: someone laid-back, fitting the atmosphere, somebody who can gracefully converse with any manner of person. Versatility is the name of the game.

The place is a classy little club-bistro, Pinstripes, known for their in-house band. I come on hoping to waitress, but let slip my musical ambitions (quite purposefully, of course) to the manager – Harry - who interviews me. With a sincere interest, he asks if I would be willing to audition – their principle pianist left only last week, and they need someone to cover guitar on Wednesdays. I'm not particularly knowledgeable in the former, however, I am willing to lie – and learn.

I'm offered a spot on the pianist bench for Tuesday through Saturday, along with Wednesday nights, and lunches hostessing the house on whichever week days I don't have class.

Before I know it a month has passed. Busy, all the time, I grow to love the rush my life has become. The city becomes familiar. The foreign sounds and accents and food sparkling with adventure. My job keeps me on my toes, my schoolwork lets rise to a greater passion for music, my quiet apartment becomes a place of meditation, a refuge after long days. A month has passed me by, and by the time I've settled into my classes and my work, I realize that for the first time since Ben disappeared an my mother died, I am okay.

**-XXX-**

It's a lovely Sunday morning when my usual jog is interrupted. Three times a week I run five kilometers, even when it's slightly chilly as it is on this September morning. In the not-so-fashionable gear of tight runner's capris, a v-neck lightweight green tee, my very worn, very comfortable running trainers. My Ipod is strapped onto my upper arm, headphones in, music blaring. As always, I'm allowing myself to be immersed into the music, the city moving around me, the world turning -

- I get rather profound on these jogs.

Therefore, it takes me a few minutes to notice the black saloon car creeping down the street after me.

I happen to be alone on this kind of side-street. I mean, it's early – most people are sleep, or at church. So there is no one around, save for me, the car, and the birds.

I continue jogging, but I slow, hoping they'll pass me. No such luck. Something like fear wells in my stomach, so I speed up. I just need to make the corner. Make the corner, get to a more populated area, loose these creeps (wealthy creeps, if the shininess of the car is any indication), go home and have a hot shower. My heart is pounding. _"Just keep going…look ahead. The corner is right there…."_

"Ms. Carters."

I yelp at the noise, nearly falling off-kilter when I notice that the car is right beside me.

The back window is down, and a very polished redheaded woman is looking at me expectantly. "Ms. Carters," she says again. This is followed by something else, but I cannot hear past the sound of the Black Eyed Peas's "My Humps."

I remove my headphones. "What?"

Irritation flashes over the woman's clear brow. She's probably only three or four years older than me. "Get in the car, Ms. Carters. Please."

Frowning, I step back. "Why?"

Her lips purse. "I've got someone who can take you to your Ben."

She doesn't need to repeat herself again. I slip into the vehicle.

She promptly turns her attention to her Blackberry. I shift uncomfortably against the black leather. The car pulls away from the curb. I watch as the blocks pass. We're soon out of my neighborhood. I do not attempt to ask any further questions.

This isn't the sort of thing to happen to me. I am not the type to be stalked by mysterious black cars, to be threatened to get in to find out information on my friend. I'm naturally terrified. But what choice do I have?

It's when we hit a block of white houses with black wrought iron fences that I start to recognize things. The columns. The grey stone stoops. And the black house numbers. We stop before number forty-four.

The woman is still preoccupied by her Blackberry. I look at her expectantly, coughing slightly. She doesn't look up. "He's inside. Waiting for you."

The Germans haven't moved in yet. So the house is empty. But this doesn't ease my concern – how the hell did this person, whoever they are, get into my mother's house? Clearly they're wealthy, but can money now buy locksmiths to break in? I shake my head as I exit the car. The driver is already out, and gives me his hand to help my from the vehicle. Once I am safely standing, he moves to open the front door. It yields easily.

I enter the marble-floored foyer hesitantly. In the fresh morning light, everything gleams. The house just looks so fresh.

But I don't get much time to observe my new house, because Mr. Driver takes the chance to inform me that my host – funny, I though I owned the house – is upstairs, in the parlor. I trail up the stairs until I reach the door to what I remember to be the upstairs sitting room.

Perched regally on the beige chair is –

A slightly-balding, tallish man with narrow features. He half-turns to me from his seat. Cutting blue eyes evaluate me. I blink back.

After an awkward silence, the man rises. "Ms. Carters. Please. Sit." He indicates the couch. I move slowly, but with as much grace as I can muster, to sit. It's tough to look put-together in your morning running gear. I've got no makeup on, and my hair is in a sloppy ponytail. I suspect this to be part of the strategy of my "host." It's all too easy to make a young lady feel insecure when she's in sweats.

For a moment, he examines me. I recognize a bright curiosity in his eyes. In return, I gaze back openly. At this point, I am too confused to be concerned.

"Ms. Carters," he begins in a clipped tone. "I apologize for scaring you, but it was imperative I speak to you."

"I'm not scared."

"Ah, my mistake," he says delicately.

I cross my legs. "Who are you?"

"I am part of a very influential sect of a well-known governmental department. When people refer to having 'friends in high places,' I am those high places."

This is all good and well, but what does that have to do with me? I remain silent, hoping this apparent Very Important Person will get to the point sometime soon.

He continues. "I though we might meet someplace familiar. Your mother's house is so lovely…she had quite the eye for design. Unless I am mistaken she did it entirely herself."

So, someone enjoys flaunting their power. No surprise why he picked this particular place to meet. The question is why. However, I blurt out, "You knew my mother?"

One brow rises. "In a manner of speaking."

I don't know what to say to this. So I resume staring.

"Would you care for some tea?" He gestures lazily to the coffee table, which is laden with delicate white china.

"I would like to know why I am here and how you got access to my mother's house?"

"Interesting, how you still refer to it as your mother's home. Very sentimental, for a woman you hardly knew. Ms. Carters," he chides gently. "Do relax. You'll be here for sometime. Allow me to pour you a cup. And I am sure you must be hungry after your jog. Not your usual five kilometers, but four is still a considerable amount."

Sinking against the cushions, I allow my captor (is that an appropriate description?) to pour me a cup. Upon receiving it, I sip reluctantly. It's a mild, sweet brew. He offers me a plate of pastries, which I decline

"That's better," he says after drinking from his own teacup. "On to business."

"Your assistant said something about Benjamin. That you could take me to him."

"I am afraid that isn't possible for the time being. Without going into much detail, your Benjamin will not be safe to see you for a long while."

I am beginning to feel cold. "Not safe?"

He regards me. "He's a very popular man, Ms. Carters. Popular in the way than many people wish to kill him."

Cold leaks down my spine. I swallow. "I – I didn't know that."

"He had no reason to tell you, at the time." The blue eyes focus on mine heavily. "That is not precisely why you are here, though, Ms. Carters. I wished to inform you that you are in danger. Grave, immediate danger, should you continue to seek an association with Mr. Holly."

"What do you mean?"

The man steeples his fingers carefully. "I mean that there are those who seek to hurt Mr. Holly who might very well use you as…leverage. I would advise that you cease your connection to him in order to protect yourself."

"But…." Dazed, I look down at my cup. "I haven't seen him in nearly a month."

"I am aware. But regardless, I would not seek him out."

Seek him out? I wouldn't know where to begin.

"It is imperative that you protect yourself, Ms. Carters. An association with this man could spell certain death, or at the very least, injury. He is dangerous, if not in his own right, then in his mere presence in your life. I urge you to exert caution."

"Why are you warning me?"

He appears to be mildly surprised. "Why, Ms. Carters. Out of the goodness of my heart. You should believe me when I say I wish no more lives to be affected by this man's foolishness. You have no reason to be tangled in these matters."

This is acceptable enough. I finish my tea, peering out the window. After a few moments' consideration, I ask, "Who are you? To Ben, I mean? What are you in his life?"

"Me, Ms. Carters? Why, I believe I would be his greatest living rival. An enemy, if you will."

"Living?"

"Oh, yes." The eyes are like ice. Professional, curious ice. "Most everyone who aligns themselves with him find themselves dead at some time or another."

**-XXX-**

**Ah, sorry I didn't get this up this morning. There was something I realized this chapter was missing, so I had to scramble to write it in. **

**We finally got to meet Mycroft. But what's he doing? Warning Viola to stay away from a dangerous Sherlock she'd not even aware of? What? **

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take 'em all! Type in that nifty box below. **


	15. Chapter 15

**Silhouettes Chapter 14**

**From what research I have done, Sherlock jumped on June 12****th****. I'm assuming he moved to the country shortly after. He's there before Viola returns to school. It's September when Viola leaves for school. Sherlock leaves in mid-August. And we're around October here. **

**I have to admit, I was overwhelmed with the response to these last two chapters, and I feel as though this comes as a result of two things:**

**More frequent postings**

**The knowledge that I have written chapters ahead.**

**I just gotta say, guys, that motivation through reviews is still appreciated, even if I'm mostly done with this. **

** Anyways, this is just me saying that reviews would still be greatly appreciated. Awesomesauce, even.**

** On that note, shout outs to SJBHasADayPass,** **franzi86, DoulosAnastasis, Sneezy Whale, FeatherDeath, Daliah Valley, Why Fireflies Flash. You guys have been great. Sorry if I missed anyone!**

**-XXX-**

I am ushered back to the car. My "host" graciously opens the door for me. I pause before stepping outside.

"I don't think I'll be seeing Mr. Holly ever again. He left without notice, and I doubt he'll be contacting me…well, ever."

"Even so. I'd prefer you were warned."

For a few seconds, I gaze at him. "Thanks, I guess. Maybe next time you could call me up, so I could put it on my calendar. I am sure it must trouble you greatly to have me quivering with fear and in my running sweats. I could also maybe straighten up this place, too. Though I doubt we'll meet again."

He smiles sincerely, one lip tucking upwards.

"Oh, we shall," he assures me. "Soon enough Ms. Carters. Have a nice morning."

Tipping his head, he gestures for me to seat myself in the saloon car. Once again, I am next to the aloof ginger woman. In fifteen awkward minutes, I am standing before the stoop to my flat.

**-XXX-**

Wrists can grow weary quite quickly from stirring. Despite the warm, tasty product of soup you get from it, in the end the twinge of pain will remind you for a day or two that your joins are rather weak. Stupidly weak, in fact. It's what I get for picking complicated soups.

On Sundays I make soup. It's a part of a routine I've developed. Thursdays I eat out and explore the city. Saturday nights are for laundry. On Sundays I make soup – enough to get me through two or three meals. For those late nights at the bistro, it's nice to come home and be able to simply microwave a simple dinner. And I find that the quiet act of reverently sitting before the stove, stirring the pot rhythmically while the radio plays in the background is a therapeutic ritual. I like my Sundays.

On this particular Sunday I'm in the middle of making a black bean soup when an interesting radio announcement catches my ear. Usually the stream of music and advertisements and news just sort of floats by me, a comforting white noise, but for some reason this particularly news story give me pause.

" – _and in our third week of the investigation, the terror that is the Underground Kidnapper has struck for a fifth time," _the announcer says gravely. They've got a nice, melodic voice, a little on the husky side. _"Scotland Yard reports that the fifth victim, Sharon Yu, a female twenty-eight years of age, was last seen getting off at the Moor Park platform. When last seen Ms. Yu was wearing a mustard yellow jacket and a teal stocking cap. She has long black hair with brown eyes, is of Asian descent, and will respond to 'Shar.' If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Ms. Yu or any other victims, please contact –"_

The Underground Kidnapper. For three weeks people have been disappearing off the tube platforms. The media has been having a field day. The police are going mad. The city is relatively unchanged. For every two that are taken one is returned, alive, but dazed, unable to say where they've been, or even what their kidnapper looked like. Most are unharmed, save for a few scratches on their arms, perhaps a bruise or two. They're very confused though, almost in shock. Shells, for a time. But that's not the scary part.

There seems to be, according to the media, no pattern. No connection between the people. They're all of different ages, sexes, occupations, etc. Nothing ties them together. The times people are taken, too, do not correlate. It's truly terrifying to think that you could be snatched at any moment. Luckily, I can, for the most part, avoid the trains. But I know there are many others who cannot.

"_We've just received the report from Scotland Yard last night that consulting private investigator Sherlock Holmes has been assigned to the case. A many of you know Mr. Holmes was suspected dead last spring following mysterious circumstances regarding the break in at the Tower, the Bank of England, and the release of prisoners at Pentonville. His return early this autumn stunned many, but after clearing his name the police admitted to being glad he's returned."_

Here it cut to the quote of a gruff man saying shortly, _"Yeah, he's been of help to us. Especially on some of the more tough ones. We need an outside perspective, occasionally. But don't think these boys at the yard can't handle cases on our own – we solved a lot before Mr. Holmes showed up."_

"_Crime analysts say that Mr. Holmes's involvement could actually create a spike in kidnapping, however, we'll just have to see. Until this kidnapper is brought to justice, please remember to be cautious when using the underground. Stay in well-lit areas, around groups of people. Do not interact with strangers excessively. And report any funny business you might see. _

"_In other news, Meyer Pharmaceuticals is feeling the heat once again from another slew of lawsuits. This time it's over allegedly using brittle steel in their latest line of surgical knifes. Knives, doctors across the continent report, are liable to snap and break inside patients. Meyer, the second largest pharmaceutical company in the UK, has offered no comment at this time. From Pennington Station, this is Tyler Burdrich for your twelve o'clock report. Have a peaceful Sunday…." _

How curious. My heart goes out to the victims. As I stare into the muddy sludge that is my soup, I wonder after the motive. Is this just a sadistic fiend looking for a "good time?" I shake my head. _"Terrible."_

I don't recall much of Mr. Holmes, though the story of the robberies is familiar, his coming-back-to-life act is not. The name rings a bell, but I cannot place a face with it. He mustn't be that famous, then. Probably just known in those crime-drama circles. You know the types. The ones that follow the papers keenly. The ones that love shows like _Cold Case _and drop the name of famous crimes like they're movies.

Without much more thought on the matter, I return to my soup.

**-XXX-**

One Tuesday shortly after hearing the news announcement, I am approached at work by a sturdy-looking blonde fellow. We're not quite at closing, but the band has shut down for the night. I've taken my drink from the bar and propped myself up against the stage, watching Sanjay, our tech guy, coil thick black electric cords. For a week night it's been pretty crowded. I figure the autumn chill has sent many people to going out more. We don't mind in the least.

He hovers near me for a few minutes before making an effort to speak to me. If I recall correctly, he came in on the third-to-last song of the night. Sort of crept in.

"Excuse me, miss?"

I sigh heavily, preparing to fend off the pleas for a phone number. But, against my expectations, the fellow says, "Hello," warmly, then sticks out a hand. "John Watson. I've been told you wear a lot of hats around here. May I speak to you for a moment? About your manager?"

For a second I take him in. Shorter, for a man, with closely-cropped sandy blond hair. Bright, intelligent blue eyes. Probably around midthirties, reasonably cute. Oatmeal-coloured jumper – hardly something to go out in, but to each his own – brown loafers, jeans. I can't really discern much –

-Except, of course, I realize with a sickening jolt, that I've been pulling a Ben. Trying to cleverly discern who this person might be. I feel a kind of illness in my throat at the thought.

"Um. Why?"

The guy is prepared. "I'm part of a private investigation. Your boss isn't in trouble, I just need to know something about his work schedule."

My eyes narrow. "Who exactly are you?"

"John –"

"No, I mean, what do you do? You're no PI, no offense."

"None taken." He smiles easily. "Retired military, actually. I'm doing this on the side. Helping a friend."

"Do you have any documentation?" I hate to be bother, but I don't want to start spewing things left and right to just anyone. To my relief, he admits to having none. Nevertheless, I agree to help him.

"And why do you need to know about Harry's schedule?"

"We need to figure out if someone's story collaborates with what he normally does through the course of a week."

I consider this. "Is Harry in any trouble?"

There is hesitation. "Ah, no. Not technically."

Harry is a nice guy. He's good to all of us here, and would defend us to the death in front of the owners. Last month, when I came down with a stomach bug, he gave me so much time off I had to force him to let me work even after I'd been better for two days. He makes a point to have the band fed and sufficiently watered every night – those stage lights can be hot, it's easy to get dehydrated. With this in mind, I cross my arms.

"He's a great fellow," I say. "I don't like to think –"

"It's just to clear him," Mr. Watson says soothingly. "Now, can you tell me…does Harry have a tendency to run late?"

"Oh, no, he's a punctual person. I've never known him to be tardy – except, perhaps, on days when he has to pick up other people's shifts."

"So…there aren't any days he might come in a bit later?"

"Never," I say firmly. "He's always on time, Mr. Watson."

"John," he corrects lightly. "You can call me John. And I'm a…doctor."

At this, I smile slightly. This John Watson isn't too bad of a guy. He's got a certain calm warmness about him.

"John, then. Do you have any more questions?"

"Yes, just one more – do you know if your boss is dating anyone, at the moment?"

I think. "He's got a boyfriend who lives nears Warwick."

John takes note of this. Once he's finished, he regards me. "And…are you dating anyone?"

My lips pull up in a shy half-grin. "Not at the moment."

He's about to speak again when his cell phone rings. With a heavy sigh, he answers. " Yes?"

The tone is a weary one. I smile to myself, sipping my ale and turning back to the stage. Sanjay has disappeared. The stage lights have been lowered and set to a blue cast, giving a cool eeriness to the platform. When I look back at the dining room, I can see that people are starting to leave. Elle, one of our waitresses, is going around the empty tables blowing out candles and rearranging the centerpieces. Behind her, at the door, telling people to have a good night as the shuffle out into the chilled autumn night.

"—Pinstripes, I was just getting those – yes, but you asked me to do that for you, this morning. No, don't come down – I know you're still in your pajamas!" There is a pause. "I know you can dress yourself." Another pause. John gives me a sheepish look of "_I'm-really-really-sorry-about-this._" I wave my hand.

"No, don't come here!" John says into the device exasperatedly. "Besides, it's too late to eat, they're closing down. I've already asked all the questions you wanted. You're in a cab? But –"

The line goes dead. John Watson pulls the phone from his ear glumly. "Ah, it looks like my associate will be here soon. Sorry."

"We'll get a drink sometime, yeah?

"Yeah," he tells me sincerely. "Could I –"

But I'm already reaching for his notepad, scrawling down my number. I am not in the habit of handing my digits out, but John Watson is sincerely charming, mature (maybe so mature he's a little old for me) and very, very different from Ben. Once I've handing the pad back to him I excuse myself for the back stage. I've got a bit of cleaning to do on our keyboard, then an arrangement of sheet music.

Our stage, in general, is not too large. Just enough for five musicians. The backstage isn't big either. When we're housing the baby grand and several other boxes of instruments, all the electrical chords, spare lights, along with a bathroom and a few couches, it's quite crowded indeed. So I have to sit right next to the curtain as I scrub the plastic keys. This allows me to hear the comings-and-goings of closing. Usually it's things like gossip between bus boys, or perhaps one of our waitstaff sing. The bartender, Franklin will sometime tell stories as a few of the more favored customers who hang around for post-dinner cocktails.

Tonight it's the usual banter. That is, until I hear John – who I'd thought had left – say sharply, "Oh, it's at 11 pm you decide to put proper pants on and venture outdoors."

Whoever he says this to ignores the slight. "Where is the manager?"

The voice gives me pause. I freeze. If I didn't know better, I'd say that it was Ben, out there. That deep and demanding voice is just a ringer for his – but it's probably just John's friend, the one needing help on an investigation of some kind.

"In the kitchen," John sighs. "It's closing though, he's probably busy –"

I hear the sound of quick steps sweeping by the stage, followed by an exasperated sigh.

Soon after this I leave for the night. I push the incident from my mind. John doesn't call.

**-XXX-**

**Whelp! We met John. And where we find John, Sherlock tends to follow…..**

**I'm at camp now, so updates will be...random, to say the least. **

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I reply to them all! **


	16. Chapter 16

**Silhouettes Chapter 16**

**Originally this was a piece of chapter 15, but a split seemed necessary.**

**I'm sorry about my lack of replies. Besides working from about 8am-12am every day, most of my notification emails landed in my spam box. Just know that I thank you, and all (well, mostly all) shall be answered. Sometime.**

**-XXX-**

The following Friday finds me in Pinstripes rushing around like a madwoman. We're two hours to open, and I've been given double duty. Our weekend manager, Luca, is out with the flu, meaning Harry has been called in. He's not going to be able to make the shift on time, though so the rest of us are picking up the slack until then. I've been assigned to clean the mirrors behind our booths and bar.

Precariously perched upon the ledged counter of the bar, I'm doing my best to wash the mirrored surface. Apparently some slob made a bit of a mess back there last night. Franklin didn't have time to clean it, and right now he's working on garnishes in the kitchen. Mustering all the balance I can I stretch to reach one upper corner.

That's about when the door opens with a slight jingle. Marion, the woman who is our evening hostess, is at the podium organizing reservation seating and waiting schedules. I hear her say, "Excuse me, can I help you? We're not quite open for dinner yet, gentlemen."

"Actually, we're here to see your manager," one of the men says. I think it might be John. I am tempted to turn around to see, but there is a small stain in the corner that just needs a little more elbow grease.

"He isn't in at the moment," Marion hedges. "But we've got –"

"Could you find out when he might be?" It's that other voice again. The one who reminds me of Ben.

A little flustered, Marion agrees. She goes to the back, where our office phone is located. In the mean time, I can hear the two men wander further into the building. They stop just near the bar. I take it John either doesn't recognize me, or is pointedly ignoring me. I bite back a sigh. Well, it was a long shot on both sides, anyways.

"Curious, that they wouldn't have a manager in."

"Maybe someone is running late," John says fairly. "Or ill. Not everything is a conspiracy."

There is bite in those words. Subtle, but definitely present.

A smile rises in the voice of the other man. "There is no such thing as a coincidence, John."

"Yeah, not where I'm concerned," John murmurs. A scrape sounds. He's sat down. The other guy is still standing.

Silence resumes, until the nameless man says abruptly, "Who are you looking for?"

"I'm not looking for anyone," John says defensively.

"Yes you are."

"Who?" John Watson demands.

There is a pause. I assume the man is scanning the room. I'm still working on that spot. However, I can feel his gaze settle upon me, boring into my head.

"Her."

It's then – finally – that I look up. I look into the mirror, back at the bar, to see Benjamin Holly reflected back at me. Our eyes automatically connect.

Being as I am precariously propped upon the ledge, I promptly fall.

It's just four feet or so to the floor, but nevertheless, the contact _hurts. _There is a cry from the bar, presumably from John. I gasp upon impact, air forced from my lungs in a brutal manner. I'd had enough sense to not land on my head, but fell twisted, on primarily on my hip. It's not a nice feeling. For a brief second I let my head lay back, closing my eyes with a groan. When I open them, both John and Ben stand before me. Marion and Elle are at the bar, curiously peering over. There isn't much concern in their eyes.

John offers me a hand. I accept it, wincing as I am set on my feet.

"Are you alright? What hurts?" he asks quickly.

"Ah, just my hips." That's just about all the attention I will allow him, however, before turning to Ben. But I say nothing, unable to find any words. I could strike him, but the cliché isn't appealing. So I just stare.

Ben gazes back with something akin to impassiveness. "Get her to a chair," he instructs John curtly. The doctor casts him a sour looks before guiding me out from behind the bar to the nearest table. I hear him quietly ask Marion for a glass of water.

Though I'm a little in shock, I can call out, "Make it a coffee."

He returns to me a little later. Ben has been sitting across from me since I've sat down, looking at me with those ever-clear eyes. I've been occupying myself with the bistro's décor, disinterestedly examining every abstract painting adoring our caramel-coloured walls. It's odd – shouldn't he, the one who _left, _be feeling awkward? Why am I not screaming at him, demanding answers?

But I cannot even hope to talk. I don't even know what I might say. That's a lie, I do – _"Why?"_

"Are you alright?" John asks, concern in his eyes. "Is your hip still hurting?"

"She's fine," Ben answers for me. I can't meet his eyes. "Bruised, but she'll be alright. Go ask the hostess for a few aspirin."

I wonder if he's imagining the bruising patterns on my bare hips. Those eyes are searing.

The doctor opens his mouth, pausing, then turns back to Marion without argument. Marion leads him to the back offices, where she probably keeps her purse. In a few minutes, he returns. I've waited miserably across from Ben. The décor being fully analyzed, I've turned to the tabletop. Marion shakes out a few pills, then retreats once I've swallowed them.

John stands beside the table, then, sensing some awkwardness, turns to me to ask tentatively. "Did he say something offensive?"

"It's not what I've said, John," Ben says. "It's what I've done."

I glance at him. He accepts my gaze fully, holding it.

"Viola."

Though said simply, I feel a certain weight to the way he say my name. It's very pronounced. I could throttle him. Or weep. Or both.

John looks between us. I'm sure the tension is reeking into the air. Even he could feel it. "Do you…know one another?"

Ben lets me answer, giving a small nod.

"Yeah." I look at my hands. "We do."

Poor John is utterly confused. Here are two people, one of which who virtually fainted upon sight of the other, now acting completely cold to one another. With only a halting explanation, at that.

"Sherlock?" John looks to the man across from me.

At this I jolt forward, choking. "Excuse me? What did you call him?"

Brow furrowed, John repeats himself. "Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes?"

Across the table, Ben – or should I say Sherlock – sighs._ "Sherlock Holmes." _The name rings in my mind. A manila folder. Reading quickly. The McLarney murder….That name I found, the one that was so familiar. He was the one. The one working for Scotland Yard. The guy in the deerstalker on the front pages of all the papers for weeks, the fellow who jumped after being caught fraud. The man who was on the radio last Sunday, having cleared his name and being used by the police to catch this Underground Kidnaper.

The man who has disappeared, it was rumored, to protect his friends and family in London from that criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty, only to return a few months later when he was given an "all-clear" by an anonymous fro benefactor.

The silhouette. The half-person shadowed in fire, removed to the country in secret, without friends, alone after being publically discredited as a fraud. The aloof, mysterious man who wouldn't say where he came from, what he did, or what he was doing in our small town.

I round on him.

"That was a detail you failed to mention," I hiss. "Disgraced consulting detective. _Benjamin." _

He visibly winces, but never breaks eye contact with me. "I was…unable to do so. You know why."

"What he means is he was dead," John says.

I turn to him. "He was in Sussex. With me."

John's brows raise, and he glances at Ben – Sherlock – who in turn says nothing. He's just…looking at me. Like I'm some kind of puzzle he's trying to figure out. When, in reality, it's he who is the enigma. Really, he has no right to be acting so cryptic and confused. I'm the one who has right to be nervous here. Not him.

The coffee arrives. John lets me have one sip before beginning his questions.

"How did you know one another? And why did were you calling him Benjamin?"

"Because that was how I knew him." I tap my fingers against the tabletop. The tablecloths haven't been placed out yet. The wood feels slightly sticky against the pads of my fingers. "Ben Holly. The mysterious man who lived on the top of the hill. Source of gossip and rumors about our village. My dad's quietest tenant."

"Oh? And what was he to you?" John crosses his arms.

This interests Ben – Sherlock – as well. I don't respond right away.

"A friend," I say softly.

At this, the man I once knew as Ben seems to almost deflate. But only for a fraction of a second. Straightening, he says, "I didn't except to see you here."

"Obviously."

His eyes flash. "You should be in New York. You're supposed to be in New York. Not London. After your inheritance…."

I look away. "I couldn't to that to Dad. Not after my mother." I pause. "I didn't exactly anticipate seeing you again, either."

"Can someone explain what exactly is going on here?" John asks loudly.

Sherlock and I exchange a looks of _"well-I-would-rather-not" _before I give John a summary of our acquaintanceship. "Ben" had lived in one of our rental cottages. I struck up a friendship and inadvertently given myself a heaping load of housekeeping duties. We'd gotten close. He'd disappeared without a word.

"Yeah, he has a habit of doing that," John adds at this part in the story, scowling. Sherlock doesn't even blink.

"Sherlock," I start quietly. "I've got a lot of questions."

"And very little time." He is rising, pulling on gloves as he does so. "Your restaurant will be opening soon, Viola. And you still need to warm up. You don't play nearly as well with cold hands."

With that he passes me by for the door, lingering long enough to turn back. "I will see you again soon," he reassures me coolly. "Visit me at 221b Baker Street. I'll answer all of your questions there. Come, John."

Stunned, I watch as he calmly exits the bistro. With a put-upon expression, John follows after. He pauses long enough to apologize for his rude friend, then disappears after him. I am left frozen at the table.

**-XXX-**

An hour into the dinner shift, Harry is called from the front to the backstage. He finds me curled up on the couch, Marion, Loren, our vocalist, and Chaz, our bass guy, hovering over me with concern. I'm trying to wave then off, but they sent someone to grab our manager. With great concern, Harry squats beside the couch. It's fifteen minutes to the first set. If his piano girl isn't out there, they may as well cancel half of the set.

"What's going on, Carters?" he asks. With his hair neatly combed and a pressed shirt and tie, he looks far too nice to be hanging out back here with us.

"Boyfriend problems," Marion pipes up. I shoot her a glare of daggers, which she ignores. "Her ex came in this afternoon. Wasn't expecting him. I didn't hear them talking, but I am guessing he was right nasty, the arse. Snob if I ever saw one, Harry."

"'S'more complicated than that," I mumble. "Just kind of shocked."

"And she apparently fell off the bar when she saw him," Chaz adds dryly. They're virtually ignoring me. "Landed on her legs a little hard."

I do have an inflamed, bruised patch of skin that is slowly turning purple, just on my lower left hip. I check it in the bathroom a little after the incident. It's pretty nasty. A veritable rainbow of bruising.

Harry evaluates me. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah." I push myself up into a proper sitting position. Loren immediately comes forward for my elbow. "I'm fine, I'm fine."

"I think you're in shock," Marion says. "Harry, she's clearly not doing well. Send her home."

Harry looks at me, brow furrowed. His hand finds mine, squeezing lightly.

"We can cover for her," Chaz tells him, bending down slightly to better reach Harry's ear. "We'll just have to rearrange the set for the night, but it's possible. Don't make her go on."

"I could cover piano," Loren says. He's not skilled as I am, but a decent player. It's not his forte, though, and I know how hard it can be to muddle your way through playing while also trying to sing. Plenty of recitals have given me experience in that.

"I would not make her go on if she didn't feel like it. But why don't we give Viola a chance to speak," Harry says, a hint of irritation in his tone. Of course, we're on dinner shift on a night he was supposed to have off, so he's definitely allowed to be stressed. "I've got three tables left to feed and a new busboy to watch."

"I am fine," I insist. "I am a little surprised, but I can play. I fell on my ass, not my head." I squeeze his hand. "I need some normal tonight, Harry. Please."

smile. Then he rises. "You're on in fifteen," he says, indicating me, Loren, and Chaz. "And Marion, unless you're on break, you need to be up front."

Marion looks affronted. "Harry, she is clearly not okay! That was a hard fall. She needs –"

"She wants to stay here," he tells her firmly. "And we'll just have to trust her. Now you go, get ready. "

"Thank you Marion, guys" I say quickly. "I appreciate it."

This softens her a little. Loren squeezes my shoulder, Chaz offers a slight smile. They depart for their respective jobs. Harry helps me off the couch.

"Tough day," he says quietly. "I know. But you're resilient. Going back to every day life will only help you. Let me know if you need anything."

With that he returns to the front. I unsteadily move to the keyboard set up along the back wall. We've got this and a baby grand, which we switch out depending on our needs. The keyboard is good for warming up, as you can put in headphones so as not to disturb anyone. I let my fingers caress the keys lightly before turning it on. I plug in earbuds, then start through my usual warm up drills. At first I am lethargic – my fingers are leaden against the plastic, notes sloppy; it's nothing like my usual crisp sound. Frustration drives me to warm up longer than I usually would, so long that Chaz, Tiana, Brian, and Loren are on the couches, waiting by the time I am finished.

"Ready?" Tiana asks. She plays violin, harp, and guitar. Basically anything stringed, she has it mastered. We've gotten together at my apartment a few times to work on improving my guitar. Of Welsh-Indian descent, she has creamy caramel skin and lush dark hair that waves down her back beautifully.

"Yeah."

Brian, our percussionist, offers me a hug. Though I've worked with these people for only two months we're already created something of a family unit. Last month, when Brian's girlfriend walked out on him, we all went out for drinks after our Saturday set. And I know Tiana has been bringing Loren casseroles at least once a week, as his mum has been in a bad state with her MS, forcing him to spend most days with her. We take care of one another alright.

Mercifully, no one asks how I am doing. They don't require explanations. We just continue with our Friday night set. I play with a focus I've never known before. Afterwards, Loren tells me I've never been so impassioned.

**-XXX-**

When I get home I elect to take a very long, very hot bath. When the water turns lukewarm I drain it to add more. This happens two more times before I've had my fill. After drying off I take tea in bed. I pick up my laptop off the bedside table to write a quick email to dad. Logging in, the news slideshow that dominates the homepage catches my eye.

_"UNDERGROUND KIDNAPPER CLAIMS ANOTHER, RELEASES THIRD VICTIM," _ the bolded headline reads. _"Yard claims a seventh won't be taken. Mr. Holmes offers no comment. Read more here." _

Shivering, I pull up my duvet. I'm glad I don't have to ride the tube. The mention of Sherlock irritated me irrationally. Of course he's had no comments, if John was right, it sounds like the man has spent most of his time cooped up home in pajamas, or working on side cases like the one my manager is apparently tied up in.

Once I finish my email, I start on some classwork. Soon it's past 2. I gratefully welcome sleep. When I reach unconsciousness, I do not dream.

**-XXX-**

**Well, this was certainly loaded with drama and angst and surprise. Don't worry, this isn't the last we'll see Mr. Holmes soon enough. **

**Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer them all eventually! **


	17. Chapter 17

**Silhouettes Chapter 17**

**I apologize for the delay. As I've mentioned before, I have a camp job. I'm working something between 18-15 hour shifts, so I tend to work on homework or sleep when I'm off. I will reply to reviews when I've got time, just know now that they are appreciated.**

**For the record, I have been consulting maps of the current London Sub system. However, I'm too lazy/busy to look up many details on the stops I'm mentioning, sorry. **

**-XXX-**

On Monday the papers break the news – the Underground Kidnapper has been caught. I notice this as I pass a newsstand on my way to class. The words catch my eye, along with John and Sherlock's photos plastered on the front. I pause in my trek, causing a portly man walking just behind me to bowl me over. He curses nastily before continuing on. I ignore him, bolting for the stand. I purchase one paper, which I read after class, perched on a bench with a cup of coffee.

_"Late on Sunday Mr. Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson apprehended the Kidnapper attempting to capture their seventh victim at the Queensbury stop. The victim was take to St. Barts for minor injuries substained in the scuffle. Two shots were fired by the armed Kidnapper. Both Holmes and Watson were unharmed. Officers were called after the Kidnapper was restrained by Mr. Holmes by the use of a belt. Three witness were present. One, a Mr. Crossly of Evan's Field stated, 'They were scufflin' in the corner, near the bathrooms. The tall bloke wielding this belt, the short one, tacklin' 'em. There was some shouting. I thought it was some kind of a stunt, put on by students, until I saw the gun. That got people screamin' and yellin', and soon everyone was on the stairs. I wouldn'tve thought it to be the kidnapper. '_

_ "The suspect is described by witnesses as a slight, dark-haired fellow of an Eastern descent. The men who apprehended the kidnapper, Dr. Watson and London's consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, declined giving a comment to any reporters. No further information has been released. A press conference is to be held at 4 pm today and will be published in our evening edition."_

**-XXX-**

It takes me almost a week to gather up the nerve to visit Baker Street. Between my own curiosity and the encouragement of my Pinstripes friends, I some how convince myself to go.

In this week, Sherlock and his friend has been in the papers plenty. Every periodical in town is seeking an interview, apparently, though Sherlock is not biting. Any comment that does reach the press's ears is quickly published. London is going mad for him. Deer stalkers, the cap he so comically swept on in an attempt to avoid media attention, a becoming a common sight upon the streets. He is on the news every night – usually in recordings of various past press conferences. I've pathetically taken to watching the 10 o'clock, just to catch a glimpse of him on my screen.

Harry is the one who convinces me. Late Wednesday, while we take our breaks in the back pantry, he listens to my story quietly. We're sitting on crates, eating some of the fish the cook put on special tonight.

"You'll have to see him," he tells me after I finish.

Twirling my fork, I frown into my plate. "Why?"

Harry considers me for a long moment. "Because if you don't, you'll always wonder what the hell happened. And if you don't go to him, he might very well come to you…or not. Which one is worse, Vi?"

I cannot say. Both sound rather hellish in their own right. But I suppose Harry does have a point – I'd rather know than not.

**-XXX-**

Which is why Saturday morning finds me on the grey little stoop beside a sandwich shop – _Speedy's _the red awning reads– staring at the worn brass numbers of 221. Before coming to terms with my next course of action, I cast my gaze about. It's a grey morn, filled with drizzle and disgruntled Londoner passing at a brisk pace. The air in chilled. I've worn a jack, the collar turned up, but my umbrella is disregarded at the bottom of my purse. A bit of rain doesn't scare me. While I'd rather have my hair looking reasonable, I am already too drawn with nerves to care. I'm a stricken as a catgut cord.

The entire taxi ride over here was absolutely miserable. Traffic was terrible enough – the gloomy day seeming to have put all the drivers in a mood – and then I'd had to deal with a hold up at one of the crossings – some crime in progress at a fish market. Four blocks from the house on Baker's Street I'd asked to get out. I counted out the fare unsteadily, then strolled down the sidewalk on jiggly limbs.

Now, standing on his steps, I'm wondering if this perhaps was a _horrible _idea. Strangely enough, I'm not quite to angry as I am scared; for what cause I know not, only that my stomach is aching with these nerves.

_"It's now or never, Carters," _I scold.

With the greatest of trepidation, I lift the knocker and wait.

And wait.

So I try the buzzer instead, wincing at the noise.

There is finally a shuffling from behind the black door. My heart is leaping in my chest as the sound nears. A blonde, elderly woman opens the door slowly, peering out into the rain with narrowed (but not unkind) eyes. "Yes?"

"I knocked," I say dumbly. This is entirely unexpected.

Something alights in her eyes. "Oh! I thought I heard that, but then, I thought it might be one of the boys. They do make so much noise, all hours of the day and night," she says fondly. "Can I help you, dear?"

"I – I'm here to see Sherlock – Mr. Holmes. If he's in," I add timidly. I hadn't considered his absence. What I might do if he wasn't home. After raising up so much courage, how could I turn around and go home?

"I'm afraid he's out, dear," she tells me. "On one of his cases."

"Oh…."

Perhaps it's the sight of my disappointment, or maybe just her kindhearted nature, but the woman says after a beat, "But you can go wait up stairs for him. I'm sure he won't mind. Always looking for business, our Sherlock. I'll send him right up when he's in. Just…I wouldn't touch anything, dear."

I lead upstairs by the woman (who informs me her name is Mrs. Hudson, and that she is the landlady, no, not the _housekeeper) _to a crowded flat. Once settled, she offers to bring up some tea and biscuits, so that I might be more comfortable in my wait. She has no idea when the "boys" might be back in. In some vague sense, I am reminded of Dr. Potter.

Once alone, I have time to explore the flat. The parlor is cramped, though not in size, but in things; piles of books, papers, and miscellaneous objects litter all available surfaces. A pair of armchairs flanks the fireplace. On the mantle rests a grinning skull – real, too, I think. The black-and-white wallpaper is rather gothic, not what I'd picture to be in the taste of the two male flatmates.

The mess carries through to the kitchen. What might've been the dining table is covered, almost buckling under the weight of vials, petri dishes and beakers and all sorts of science-y things. A microscope sits center, regal amid the mess.

After doing my nosing, I return to the couch, pausing to examine the powder-blue portrait of a skull. It's apparently a theme.

Ten minutes pass before Mrs. Hudson brings the tea. She leaves me alone again, saying something about television and mystery hours. I simply smile as placidly as possible; being inside Ben-Sherlock's flat is ten times as nerve-wracking as standing outside of it. It's more real. I am terribly on edge.

Luckily, I don't have too long to wait.

It starts with a bang. Then a rustle of heavy cloth. I can hear, echoing from downstairs, a few deep murmurs – a pair of men, talking. Then, loudly – "MRS. HUDSON!"

Shuffling resumes, then a higher voice joins with the others. A few more rustles, then the sound of footsteps, muffled, coming up the stairs.

I'm unable to breath as the door handle rotates and the door opens with upmost casualness.

Sherlock stands, unphased, in the threshold for approximately three seconds. Not even a flash of surprises crosses his expression. He wordlessly enters, tossing his coat upon the nearest armchair, crossing to the kitchen. John follows him inside, only he does take pause to acknowledge me.

"It's you!" he exclaims. "Viola, from the bistro, in the band."

I cannot quite answer, though my mouth opens partially.

"We've been expecting you," he adds, sheepish of his outburst.

"I said five to ten days," a deep voice reminds from the kitchen.

"It's been seven, call it a draw."

There is no response. Embarrassed (and likely uncertain of what to do with me, as the person I'd come to see seems to be entirely preoccupied with his microscope), John says, "I see Mrs. Hudson has you all set up." He gestures to the tea things. "She's good about that."

I clear my throat. "Yeah. Yeah she is. For someone who isn't a housekeeper."

His eye crinkle with amusement. "Did she tell you of that, eh? Sometimes I wonder if she says it just to remind herself."

I chuckle weakly at this. Despite our efforts, however, silence reigns. We stare at one another, each a little embarrassed. I'm here to see Sherlock, who has yet to even acknowledge me. What I'm searching for John cannot provide; he is nearly as clueless as I am. After nearly five minute of awkward silence, he stands quickly, as though relieved by an idea.

"I've got to go to the corner store," he tells me. "I need some batteries. I'll be right back…make yourself comfortable…."

He ducks out. Flees. I don't know if ought to feel grateful for his abandonment. It won't mean anything if Ben doesn't choose to talk.

Several long minutes pass. The only sound is that of Sherlock fiddling with the microscope. Impatient, I sit, tracing my fingertips along the rim of the peony-patterned teacup. Mrs. Hudson had brought up a whole set. One of the teacups has a yellow rose upon it. Another, a sprig of spring violets. They're dainty. Just the sort of thing an elderly woman ought to have for company. I stand to refill my cup, then return to the chair.

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before Sherlock pauses in his observations to drift into the sitting room. He looms in the threshold between, eyes on me. I have turned to one of the many books scattered throughout, flipping through a listlessly. When I catch the slight of him out of the corner of my eye I take no pause, but continue reading. He approaches to sit in the nearest armchair, taking a moment to move his coat. A beat passes.

My book is lowered as Sherlock prepares himself a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson has left the tray on a small side table closest to the armchair he is now occupying. Without looking at me, or otherwise acknowledging me in any way, shape, or form, the consulting detective selects the violet-patterned cup, pouring some of the hot amber liquid until it nearly reaches the brim. Two sugars go in – _plop, plop _– unceremoniously, without a drop escaping the confines of the porcelain, and are stirred with a steady hand. I can entirely believe him to be a scientist with a measured grip like that.

Instead of catching Sherlock's eyes, I watch his hands, entirely transfixed with the process. He's got some of the most graceful limbs I've ever seen. To see him play, too, is a pleasure. The way he caresses the bow and neck of his instrument is positively divine; knowing him, you can guess that he's never touched a living human with so much gentleness before.

_"Well. Doesn't _usually _touch living humans like that." _Memory flashes of those pale, long-fingered hands dancing up my spine and smoothly down my sides. I feel myself heat at the thought. Now isn't the time to be considering sex. Provocative hands or not.

My gaze snaps from its focus when the cup is removed from the tray and pressed to Ben – Sherlock's – sculpted lips. There they smirk slightly as the white porcelain rests against them. I have no doubt he suspects my line of thoughts. I swallow, ducking my head down.

"Join me."

It's not quite a request.

In my lap, the book – _Botany of the West Indies – _snaps shut. I stand and cross to the opposite armchair, bringing along my cup and saucer.

I take this opportunity to observe him. Dressed in a charcoal suit set with a deep plum shirt (which, I note, stretches painfully around his thin chest – he has lost weight), hair falling in a sweeping wing of raven across his brow, immaculate, he barely resembles the robe-wearing tousled-haired Benjamin I knew.

"Viola," he finally states after a sip of the brown brew.

I finally meet his eyes. They're impassive, the color of ocean ice today. I want to say something. To respond with a profound statement that will make him understand that I both hate and miss and long for and desire to hurt him, all at the same time. But mere feelings well up in my mouth – no eloquent statements that will cause him to feel the gravity of my emotions. So, I sit in silence.

"I did not think I would find you here," he admits.

"You invited me."

"In London," he clarifies. "I thought you would go to New York."

Something hateful rises in my chest. "Well, you'd know differently if you'd bothered to keep in touch."

There is no wincing, but he does set down his cup. "I could not."

"You had my number. You know my address. There was nothing keeping you -"

"I couldn't," he insists over me in his baritone. "Not for my sake, but for yours. There were still people out for me, Viola. It wouldn't do to send them straight back to you."

I glare. "Assassins? Like they said in the papers? You expect me to believe that?" Since our reunion on Friday, I'd done my research into his demise and return from death.

"I expect you'll believe what you wish," he shoots back shortly, the ice in his gaze flashing. His voice has deepened, indicating a hint of annoyance. "Not even John knew I was alive. No one, at the time, could know where I'd been. He did not even know, until you told him. We were trying to establish if it was safe enough for me to return to the city for good. And once it was appropriate to reestablish contacts, I thought better of it."

"I think you'd just have preferred to come back here and forget about me," I hiss. "Sandwiches and a quick shag, right? That's just what you were looking for, and that wasn't so much to give up."

Another sip. His lips stretch. Pursing.

"No," he says quietly.

"Then what?" I demand.

"I wished to protect you."

This is said very, very quietly. I am reminded of the man in my mother's house, and his warnings to stay away. Surely he knew who "Ben" was. Were they on the same page? Wishing me to keep away for my own safety?

"I had not anticipated leaving the country for…years, Viola. When I was summoned back, told that if was safe to return again, I was surprised. Of course I left. I thoughtlessly prepared to leave, thinking only of returning home. When I did consider you within the equation, I feared telling you might send you after me. You wanted New York. It went against your desires to move to London. I couldn't know that you would end up here. Besides, as I said, my return was not guaranteed to be a safe one. The logical course of action would be to let you have New York, and not tell you. Step out of your life as quietly as I came in.

"Perhaps it was self-centered of me to assume my presence in your life would affect your decisions of leaving Sussex. But I thought it to be for the best. I _wanted _you to come with me, Viola. If I had asked, I have no doubt I would have convinced you to go."

"And…sleeping with me?"

This almost seems to pain him. The silence is long.

"I was foolish," he says distantly. "I succumb to more heated desires than logic and reason. I should have left you be…I should have never let you into my cottage, make me tea. In the end, perhaps it would not have made a difference."

My head is swimming. "So…it was a mistake?" I say thickly.

"Perhaps."

I allow my eyes to slip away, looking out into the greying light cut out by the two windows framing the table against he wall. "It was just sex."

Something brushes my knuckles. I retract my hand.

"I thought you might forget about me," he tells me. "You would go to New York. It would be best if you had."

"So then it would be all the easier for you to forget me."

His jaw tightens.

"Perhaps it would have been best for both of us."

"Perhaps," I echo.

There is a shifting, the hard sound of wood-on-wood. He has moved forward. "Viola."

I can't. I just…cannot. Setting the teacup down, I stand, shrugging on my jacket. Silent, I remove myself from the apartment. Down the stairs, through the small foyer, out onto the sidewalk. Leaving Sherlock, alone, in 221B.

**-XXX-**

I might've escaped into one of the black cabs bustling down the street, however, someone stops me.

"Viola?"

It's John. He's carrying a brown paper sack stuffed with groceries. Surprised, he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "I thought you would be longer," he says. "You…Sherlock had a lot of explaining to do."

"Yeah," I say hollowly.

The doctor peers at me. "Are you…okay? Did he say something bad?"

I snort. "When does he not say something offensive?"

John smiles easily, but with some concern still in his eyes. "I take it today he said something quite spectacular."

I manage a pathetic attempt at laughter, but it dies all to quickly in the back of my throat. John shifts the bag.

"How…." He hesitates. "How about that drink, eh? Just as friends," he amends. "You look like you could use one today."

"It's barely noon." This does cause me to smile, properly this time. "Nah, I've got to go do some homework, then start my shift. Maybe later in the week?"

He agrees readily. If there is anything to be said about John, it's that he is wonderfully agreeable. And easy person to like. I can imagine that, being friends with Sherlock, it can be quite difficult to make relationships with others that are very lasting. The Ben I knew made it nearly impossible to bring other into the mix. Living with him, I cannot imagine it to be much better.

"You know, he doesn't mean a lot of the things he says."

"His deductions?" I raise a brow.

"Well. Those he's being honest about, yes but…he doesn't deal with emotions well. Sometimes…things get a little mixed up in translation."

I sigh. "It doesn't matter. I doubt we'll be dealing with one another again. But thank you, John. I'll see you next week, right?"

"Yeah. I will call this time, Viola. "

**-XXX-**

** I wish I could say I'd researched the tea set Mrs. Hudson uses, but alas, I fear not. **

** We're still not getting all the answers, but at least this is something like interaction, right?**


	18. Chapter 18

**Silhouettes 18**

**-XXX-**

_"—the suspect from last week's tussle with private investigations has not yet revealed any motives. The Yard released a statement this morning saying that progress is being made, yet no details are yet being released to the public. Our experts say that they are likely working on a heavy background search to find connections between the victims, and perhaps conducting some psychological evaluation. We will keep you informed as the case progresses –"_

I turn the TV off with a quick press of the button. Thankfully, Sherlock had not been mentioned in this report. His press conference with police had happened on Monday. I have been actively avoiding media since then. I figured today, Wednesday, it might be safe.

I finish my email to Dad, promising that everything is going well, the new job is still working out, et cetera, then I pack the laptop into my backpack. Following this, I remove my work outfit – a pair of black slacks, layered with a white camisole and burgundy sweater. It'll be ready for me to jump into as soon as I finished my four o'clock.

**-XXX-**

Our show is a successful. The applause is warm. We take our bows and waves before turning backstage. My fingers ache – just as they usually do on such cold nights after several hours of playing. It is request night, so we took a lot of requests from our elder crowd. I don't know how many times I've played "Fire and Rain" since I started at Pinstripes.

I'm on my way out, backpack slung over one shoulder, when a cheery voice stops me.

"Viola!"

John sits at the bar, nursing a cup of what could be water. He smiles merrily at me.

I slide onto the stool next to him. "I didn't think Pinstripes would be your kind of place, Dr. Watson. You strike me as a mess hall kind of fellow."

"I do like a good MRE," he says lightly. "Deduce that, did you?"

I hadn't, actually. I found a bit of history on John Watson's military career when I was looking up things about Sherlock Holmes.

"I think a tour of Afghanistan is quite impressive."

He sort of shrugs into his glass. It's almost embarrassment, mingled with pleasure, too.

"What are you doing here?"

"I did promise you a drink sometime this week," he reminds me.

"Ah, but I have class tomorrow. Could we make it coffee?"

He smiles. "Suits me."

**-XXX-**

"I'm actually glad you wanted coffee," he admits when we take our seats in the cozy corner of a nearby café. "I'm not so fond of alcohol myself on week nights."

"I glad I'm not the only one," I murmur. "It would seem most of my friends are all for excessive drink."

"Most of your friends are probably in their early twenties," he counters. He takes a hearty sip of his coffee. "Thank you, for coming out with me."

I smile. "I don't think this is what you had in mind when you asked me out, John."

"No," he agrees. "But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it. Even if, well…." The doctor smiles a little sheepishly. "Sherlock has kind of called dibs."

I snort. "I doubt that, Dr. Watson. He pretty much told me everything between us was a mistake."

"And you believe that?"

I trace the rim of my mug. "He said it, didn't he?"

"He doesn't always speak the truth, Viola. He can lie."

Biting my lip, I shift in my seat. "He cannot dictate your life. You could date me."

"Would you want to?" He tilts his head.

"I –"

When I cannot answer, he ducks his head with a slow smile. "I thought not. Listen, I'll not stand in for him. I'd love to, Viola, you're lovely. Yet we both know you're already plenty attached, and he's clearly set on you. Even if he's being a bit of an arse about it now. He's _bad _at comprehending people – mad in how he can read a person, but anything much past their head he's a dull as a 'll come round."

"And if he doesn't? I'm not going to wait forever. I'm not waiting, _period._"

John is silent for a time. Our waitress makes her round, offering refills. I accept my cup being topped off, but John politely declines. We move onto other subjects. He begins telling me stories of his clinical work. One, about a man with a golf club in his head, straight through the skull. I cringe through the tale, making the appropriate "grossed-out" noises. We then speak at length on freak accidents we've seen on TV or read in the papers. I recount one story from my village of a young man who spent his youth with a nasally voice, only for it to disappear when he visited the physician with complaints of congestion, to have a small pencil eraser plucked from one of his nostrils. John is utterly disgusted and strangely fascinated.

This is about the time our check arrives. I happen to catch the time on my phone. It's nearly one. Apologetic, I tell him that I ought to get home, go to be, prepare for classes.

We pay – John gallantly offers to pay in full, but I insist on covering my share – then we go outside. For a time we walk, not quite ready to depart from one another's company. We talk for sometime more on a great many things. The weather, university, apartment hunting in London, and so forth. Despite our difference in age, I find that John is very easy to converse with. It is a true pity that he will not date me. I think we'd really hit it off.

I am about to call a cab when he stops me with a spot of hesitation.

"What?"

He looks at me with his brows lifted. "He still cares about you. I promise."

"While I do believe you to be an honest man, John, we both know its Sherlock whose the ace of deducting."

"I didn't deduce that," he says quietly. "He all put pushed me out to see you tonight."

"Thanks," I reply, crinkling my nose.

"Not that I didn't want to see you. But he especially wanted me to come."

Confused, I start. "I thought you said –"

"He wasn't exactly wanting me to take you dancing," John says dryly. "But I know for a fact he was wishing I'd…look after you."

"What?"

John sighes "He wants you to be looked after. Even if he won't do it himself."

Incredulous, I shake my head. "Even if that were true, I can look after myself just fine, thanks. He knows that. And, supposing Sherlock did want me to be babysat –" Here John opens his mouth in protest. "—I'd would say it's none of his business how I fare."

"You know it isn't like that," John chides gently. "Perhaps you didn't realize this, but association with Sherlock can tend to be a dangerous thing. Regardless of your intentions, you can find yourself in some less-than-safe situations sometimes."

"I'm not –"

He cuts across me. "Just. Trust me. I know we can hardly monitor your twenty-four-seven. He is concerned. He'll always be concerned, Viola. That's precisely the reason he'd wish to send you away from him."

Sincerity shines in John's green-grey eyes. My throat aches.

"John. I don't…I don't doubt you. But I no longer have an association with him. There is nothing to fear."

I turn to the street, waving a hand. A cab pulls up to the curb. Behind me, John sighs again, though he politely opens the door for me.

"I know you have no reason to believe in me – or him, for that matter. But I can assure you in all that he does, Sherlock has _a reason. _It might not be clear. It might come off as pig-headed or stupid. But the majority of the time he's working out his own strategy. In the end, he'll have everything figured. And everything will work out." John meets my eyes seriously. "In the end, it almost always does."

"'Almost' isn't good odds."

He smiles. "There has only been one time I've seen Sherlock beaten. Even then, in the end he got the final say. No one has even come close, save for Moriarty and The Woman."

Moriarty is a name I am familiar with, however, The Woman (John say the name with such pronouncement that I have not doubt it is entirely capitalized) is not a name I recognize. I almost ask, but decide against it. The cabbie is already looking pretty pissed.

"I'll see you around, John."

"Yeah. We should do this again. Next week."

I raise a brow. "Is that what you want, or Sherlock?"

"I'd certainly like to see you," he says fairly. We leave it at that. I slip into the car. John shuts the door. He waves as the vehicle parts from the curb. I offer a hand back. Soon, he slips into the darkness.

**-XXX-**

My cab passes my street. It takes me a few minutes to realize we're far past where I am supposed to be. I lean forward, mouth open to inform the cabbie, when I realize he's very familiar.

"We'll be there shortly, ma'am."

"Where?" I demand.

He speaks calmly. "At your stop."

We pull up before a very familiar statue.

Long Waters to my left, I stare out into the inky black. No swans tonight.

_"Kensington Gardens?" _

An even more familiar person, a redheaded woman holding a Blackberry, stands a few feet from the curb. I open the door, stepping out before the driver can come 'round to get me.

"Again?" I groan. "I mean, seriously? He can't just call? I mean, I have a life, you know."

"I'm sorry, are we interrupting your evening programs? I assure you, tonight's episode of Big Brother isn't too interesting," she says snarkily. I almost blush at the (slightly true) accusation.

She leads me towards the Peter Pan statue. This is the first time I've seen it since I was a kid. The tiny boy beckons with one bronze hand. In the darkness, with only the yellowy of a few lanterns light, the metal seems to breathe with untold life. I am so enthralled by the sight that I fail to see the man – Mr. Very Important Government Person – sitting at a small table just off to the side. When I do, I am naturally taken aback.

"Ms. Carters, do sit. I apologize for the lateness of the hour."

Scowling, I take a seat across from him. The table is nicely set, with a thick black table cloth, cut-crystal stemware and plates with gold hand-painted around the rim. Some grapes, a small cake, a selection of cheeses, and a decanter of wine sit on the tabletop. Without asking, he pours me a glass of wine. I sip as he beings, wincing at the bitter taste. It's very dry. I'm definitely one for cheap, sweet wines.

"So. You've reunited with Benjamin." He lifts his glass, regarding it against the lamplight. "Or, should I say Sherlock?"

I sit up. "You didn't tell me?"

"Was I obligated to?" he asks lazily. "Go ahead and eat, I know it's been a while since you've had dinner. You spend so much time feeding others, my dear. That was how you broke his shell, with a sandwich or two."

I snag a few grapes. This causes me to think of _Cyrano de Bergerac_'s first act. I smile to myself, ducking my head. But the reminder of where I am quickly sours the happier thought.

"This is our second meeting," I point out. "I think I deserve to at least know a name or something now."

He is unimpressed by my directness. "Mycroft," he tells me shortly, still occupied with his wine. I'd take him for more of a Scotch fellow, now that I think of it.

I wrinkle my nose. "Mycroft? That's like the name of some 19th century romantic newspaper hero, almost as bad as…." I drift off, mouth falling open, aghast.

Mycroft, who is now watching closely, smiles slowly. "As Sherlock?"

"You're kidding me? You're his biggest 'rival?.'"

"Siblings are always rivals," he says shortly. "I assure you. Especially when it comes to family. Never stop competing for mummy's affection, and the like."

I stare. "Brothers. How….why must I deal with two of you? Isn't one enough?"

Mycroft chortles. "Oh, my dear. We are a package, whether Sherlock believes it or not. Besides, who do you think put him in Sussex, monitored his every move? I still keep an eye on him to this day, even though he's over thirty….Mother would be rather disgruntled if I knowingly let anything befall her 'baby boy,' and I must keep him out of mischief. I've known about you for quite some time now. An any associate of my brother's becomes an acquaintance of mine."

"I'm not his associate."

"Ah, perhaps that is not the right word," Mycroft allows delicately, fingering the handle of a nearby fork. "Though, it sounds more professional that 'lover.'"

I feel myself heat. "I'm not that, either." _"Not anymore."_

"Of course not, my dear."

"Why am I here?"

"I am simply checking in on you. Now you're aware of my brother's identity. So you must surely comprehend the danger against him, and therefore you."

Flatly, I say, "You want me to distance myself."

He looks affronted. "I would never presume to tell you what to do. However, I would advise. At the very least, be informed, and be careful. I should hate to lose another one of my brother's favorite toys…after all, he's only got the two. Yourself and Dr. Watson.

I am very hot now. "I am hardly a 'toy.' Sherlock made it very clear he wants me to have no part in his life."

"He will come around," Mycroft scoffs. "He needs the friends, whether he'll acknowledge it or not. You're already a fixture, Ms. Carters, one he'll not want to live without. Despite his desire to shield you, his own wishes will win through in the end. You'll see. He'll not keep _you _out."

"You brother has all but personally asked that I vacate his life. I don't belong. He made that very clear when he disappeared after fucking me –" Here Mycroft winces at my course language. "—and leaving without so much as a text. While I appreciate you evident concern, I am afraid it is sorely misplaced, Mr. Holmes. Now, if you will excuse me, it is quite late, and I've got classes in the morning. Good night."

I stand to leave.

"I find it curious that you didn't ask," he drawls after me. It's bait, bait I am foolish enough to take.

"Ask what?"

He fixes me with a solid stare. "Ask my brother why he left for London after spending the summer charming you in Sussex. You never asked."

I am quiet, pressing my fingers into the arch of the chair I am standing behind. The skin turns pale under the pressure. I don't ask how he knows what was said during my visit to 221B. I probably would not like the anwer."The why didn't matter. I mean, it does," I correct myself. "But leaving was the worst offense. Leaving without anything."

"Emotion." There is a slight sneer in his tone. "You're more affect by the emotional issues of the matter."

"Yeah," I say simply. "Yeah, I am."

I step away. One last look at the statue, then I am moving towards the car.

"Good night, Ms. Carters," the man called Mycroft calls quietly after me.

**-XXX-**

**Things I have learned: There are no streetlights near the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. Also, I don't believe the streets running along the statue are vehicle-accessible, but Mycroft does what he wants. **

** Google maps is a great thing. **

**Apologies for the lack of responses and updates. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Silhouettes Chapter 19**

**I apologize for the wait. I got home Friday, and have been catching up on sleep/laundry since then. **

**-XXX-**

November comes, cool and damp and full of fall colors. Aside from the slight niggling of Sherlock in the back of my mind, life is grand. I've not been this happy in ages. I have a job a love, independence, I'm living in a beautiful city, and I'm getting an education. I've never been busier, true, but I've also never been as content.

Dad came up for a weekend on the first of the month. Though not overly impressed with my schedule, he grudgingly admitted to seeing that I was indeed comfortable and safe. The reports of the Underground Kidnapper certainly had him on edge for a while there. Daily calls, warning not to use public transport, constant texting…it went on and on. Since the guy was caught, however, he has eased up considerably.

"You seem happy enough," he grumbled at that train station. "Healthy and…that's all a parent can ask for."

I haven't yet told him of Ben. He's not, somehow, found the pictures or footage of Sherlock the media has been pouring out. That, or he has not yet recognized the reclusive Benjamin Holly in Mr. Holmes.

So, I plastered on a thick smile. "I'm glad you're coming to terms with it," I teased.

Despite my lightheartedness, he noted an edge of sorrow as I looked down the tracks. The platform is bustling. I watched people pass, my eyes shadowed.

"You'll be alright, Vi," he reassured me quietly. "I had my doubts but you can do it. Anything, really."

"I'll be okay, Dad." I hugged him tightly. "Promise."

I don't know if it's a promise I can keep. But I will sure as hell try.

**-XXX-**

John and I have had coffee twice. Though I now know _why _he's kept an interest in seeing me, I keep meeting him. It's company. And it is nice to see someone who is moderately interesting and interested in me.

One time, when departing from one of these coffee dates, I thought I saw Sherlock out of the corner of my eye. A tall, thin figure in a black woolen long coat, ducking around a corner, the tail of the coat whipping out behind him.

But it was probably just my imagination.

The last time we meet, just after my father returns to Sussex, it's in Speedy's. John has been given a respite from Sherlock's latest case. He wearily waves at me from one of the back table. I duck into the slight-grubby sandwich place with a warm smile.

"Hullo," he says tiredly.

"Hi." I slip into the vinyl seat across from him. "Nice weather, yeah?"

It's colder than an iceberg out there, though we've not yet seen snow, the wind is so thick and so chilled it is almost visible to anyone's eye. I've taken to wearing winter jackets, woolly scarves, fluffy gloves, and the like. But I don't mind – I like winter nearly as much as I love summer.

"I've got no taste for it," John says dryly. "How are you?"

"Good. Keeping warm."

"Visit with your father go well?"

"Yeah. He's a little more comfortable with me living up here. Still not happy about it. But there isn't much he can do at this point."

"What's he so scared of?" John asks. He nibbles on a pickle.

I open my small bag of salt and vinegar crisps. "Oh, you know, the usual," I say airily. "People like your Underground Kidnapper, Moriarty, The Woman."

"Criminals. Well, you will find plenty of them here. Though, I don't think The Woman qualifies to be on that list."

"Oh?"

John steals one of my crisps. "She wasn't much of a public menace, as far as things went. More of a political threat."

"What exactly was she?"

"Irene? She was a genius," he says simply. "Dominatrix. Knew her way around a person's mind. One of the only people, I think, to get properly beneath Sherlock's skin.

The name makes me freeze. _"Irene?" _It's too much of a coincidence that this Irene is also a dominatrix who knows Sherlock. But he said he hadn't known her…then again, he said his name was Benjamin Holly. It's perfectly possible…..

"How?" I ask faintly.

"She used her wits. Sex appeal, I think, to some extent. When she died, the first time, was the first time I'd ever seen him even remotely hurt. He wasn't just bored –" Ah, a bored Sherlock. Now that is something I am more than familiar with. "—but perhaps depressed."

"Were they….?" I hesitate.

It takes a moment John to catch on. Once he does, he says hastily, "Oh, no. It was nothing like that. I think. There was attraction, perhaps, but nothing solid."

Something else has caught my attention. "What do you mean 'died the first time?'"

"Oh, well, she did 'pass away' last year, nearly a year ago actually. It was staged, though. Even found a corpse to match. She was gone for a few months, then reappeared to wreck havoc again. When he finally got to her, solve the case, it was too late to negotiate any kind of protection for her. She was dead in a few weeks. He doesn't know," he adds quietly. "We told him she was in America. Witness protection."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't have stood it. We thought it would be kinder."

I decide to not ask who the _"we" _is in this situation. Instead, I allow the story to absorb. My mother. He knew – and was possibly involved with – my mother.

Just another thing to add to the mystery and frustration that is Sherlock Holmes.

Thankfully, we move to different topics. John senses my discomfort and changes the subject subtlety.

Once we've finished lunch, we talk for a little longer before I return to the cold. When I begin winding my scarf 'round my neck, John stands. He crumples up our chip bags and sandwich wrappers. We walk the door together, then pause at the stoop of 221.

"Would you like to do lunch again next week? Or maybe a walk in the park?"

I give him a look. "You take that little job Sherlock's given you quite seriously, don't you?"

"What, you don't want to see me?" John asks, mocking offense.

"I'd be content with a walk. Maybe on Saturday, before I start work." I sigh. "It's not that I don't like these visits, except sometimes I feel like I am reporting in with a patrol officer."

"At least I'm honest with you. Told you up front what to expect."

"Fair enough. Listen, it's freezing. I need to get a cab, you go ahead and go in. I'll call you, yeah?"

I start down the block, hoping to hail a cab fairly quickly. One pulls up swiftly – thankfully – and I step to the curb quickly. Before getting into the car, however, I look back at John. But my gaze is almost immediately drawn away from the good doctor.

Striding down the street, nearly to the stoop, is Sherlock. He's clearly just gotten out his own cab.

It's the first time I've seen him in nearly three weeks. I'm frozen, clinging to the door, watching him approach his own front door. It isn't until the cabbie yells at me to get my ass in the car that I jolt from my staring.

The shout has caught Sherlock and John's attention. Sherlock's eyes meet mine. I begin feeling hot. Uncomfortably hot, even though it's terribly cold out here.

He inclines his head briefly. Terrified, I do not respond to his acknowledgement, but slide into the cab. I don't look back again.

**-XXX-**

The next time I see John, we're settled on a walk about the park. Before we stop for tea to go. As we're leaving the shop, paper cups pressed up to our noses, our hands happily warmed by the hot liquids. He's telling me a story about a fussy child at the clinic who had to be held down my eight nurses. I almost snort into my Earl Grey.

As we make our way around the path, I ask, somewhat grudgingly, "So…has Sherlock been eating?"

John raises his brows in surprise. Typically, I am not the one who brings him up, and actively avoids speaking of him altogether.

"I saw him, last week," I mumble. "He looked like a stick. Are you keeping him fed?"

The doctor suppresses a smile. "You know trying to feed him is like trying to teach a chicken to dance."

This surprises me. "I always managed. I practically had to come by once a day to make sure he had at least taken tea. Hell, I bought groceries for him."

"Odd," John says. "He barely eats, especially when he's working a case. And don't think I haven't tried to convince him. But you can only do so much…." He looks at me, eyes twinkling. "I'd say you have a way with him, Viola."

"Yeah, like any good babysitter," I growl. "The man is a veritable child. I'm well-rid of him. He's entirely your problem now, Dr. Watson."

"Is he?"

I feel heat rise to my face, and it isn't the tea's steam. "Yes."

**-XXX-**

The following Thursday, I'm left at the bistro later than usual. Someone – one of those rare, unruly customers – had chucked their glass of Dom Perignon at the stage, a majority of which landed on my baby grand and myself. I had to bite back a loud curse, then wheel the piano in the back to be replaced by the keyboard. The customer was escorted outside by Harry.

So, I am forced to stay nearly an hour past my usual shift, past closing, the clean the thing. Unfortunately, by the time I am ready to go, what had simply been your usual late-evening drizzle has turned into an all-out monsoon, with most cabs either off the streets, or resolutely parked along the curb. For the life of me, I cannot hail a single ride. With no other options, I poke my head back into the bistro to ask our barman for direction to the nearest tube station.

That's how I find myself, drenched, stumbling down the steps towards the platform. I flash my card – something Dad had advised I buy even though I wasn't planning on utilizing that particular form of the city's public transportation –then sidle up to the platform. It's relatively deserted; being nearly midnight, this is unsurprising. A homeless woman, squat and stern looking, rests on one of the benches. Aside from that, I'm alone.

Until, that is, another person comes in from the rain. I watch as the slim man with strawberry-blonde hair and grey cords pay for a ticket, then approach the platform. He lets his eyes, a cool brown, slide over me briefly. Something like interest alights in them.

He's young-ish, probably mid-twenties, with glasses and an artsy edge about him. Maybe it's the faded t-shirt paired with loafers and a messenger bag slung over his chest and shoulder.

Something about him gives me a nervous twinge in the pit of my stomach. I shrug my bag closer, keeping my gaze straight ahead.

The guy clears his throat.

I carefully ignore him.

But I can't when he asks, "Oh, hey. You're a musician, right? From that place Pinstripes?" He jerks a thumb in the direction of the stairs.

"Uh, yeah."

A menacing look flashes over his face. "Good."

Before I know what's happening, he is advancing with his bag held aloft. From within he removes a pistol, which is holds low, near his hips. Just out of sight of the CCTV cams.

"You're Dr. Watson's girl too, aren't you?" he asks conversationally. My eyes slide to the homeless woman, who is picking at her chin. The dude pointing a gun at me warns lightly, "Ah, ah, eyes on me."

But I ignore him, looking desperately towards the ticket booth. The blinds have been put down –

"There's nothing about fifty quid can't buy you on the underground," the ginger man says with a wide grin. "Now, Ms. Carters, if you'll kindly step closer to me."

When I don't move, he adds tilting the pistol, "This is loaded, by the way. And trust me, I am very experienced."

I shuffle forward a few feet.

"Closer."

I move until I'm almost touching his toes with mine. I can feel his hot breath brush my scalp. Feel his smile.

"Much better. Thank you, Ms. Carters. That will make many things from here on out much easier."

I look up, eyes flashing, ready to retort. Of course, that's when he raises the gun. And my world falls to blackness.

**-XXX-**

**Well, that was a dramatic twist. **

**Thoughts? **


	20. Chapter 20

**Silhouettes Chapter 20**

**Not much of a response on the last chapter, but I have been gone awhile. **

**Has anyone upgraded to app? Has anyone else had problem with it? I've lost everything, haha.**

**-XXX-**

Grey.

That would probably be the best adjective to describe what I wake up to. Greyness. Shadows. There are loud creaks and rattles, too, noises that probably roused me. I am on my side, face against hard coldness. I struggle to sit up. It's a battle, especially considering my hands are bound very, very tightly.

Once upright, I take stock of my surrounding and myself. I can very vaguely make out the shape of pipes, running up and down the walls. A table. Some shelves. But little else. As for me, I'm entirely sore. Very, very cold. My head is the worst, though, I feel as though I've been hit with all of the textbooks I've owned over course of my college career, at once, repeatedly.

I am propped against a pillar-things of rough concrete brick. My shirt has ridden up in the back, caused by the friction against the wall. Cold from the floors has seeped into every bone in my body. I shiver relentlessly against the pillar. It's a wonder I've managed to sleep. Then again, I had some help getting there…..

A slam shocks me from my observation. There is a flicker of light ahead from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling Completely disoriented, I jerk at the invasion of brightness. I blink back the light to see the ginger man standing in the center of the room – a room I now note to some kind of utility closet – brows raised.

"Hello there," he says. "Have a nice sleep, Viola?"

I stare, silent.

"I can call you Viola, right?" He moves across the room to pull up a box so as to sit in front of me. "I think we're reached that point, eh?"

When I don't answer, he shakes his head, smiling. "I know, I know, this is all moving a little fast for you. But you must know, getting into a relationship with a guy like John Watson has its risks."

"_What?" _

"I wouldn't know what you see in him," the ginger man sighs, wrinkling his nose. "He's terribly…stiff, isn't he? Bit boring, in comparison to his flatmate." His eyes twinkle. "Have you met Mr. Holmes? I'd hope so, for your sake…after all, he is the reason you're here."

He doesn't know. He thinks that I'm dating John. What…what the hell is going on?

"What – what does John have to do with this?" I finally ask, croaking. Ah, my throat hurts so much.

He laughs. "Dr. Watson? Why, everything. Well, perhaps not as much as his friend. You see, Mr. Holmes and the good doctor are proving to be quite a threat to my clients…they're making things uncomfortable for them."

"What do you mean? John's a doctor, he's never hurt anyone," I say stupidly. The longer I keep this guy talking, the longer until – until – well, whatever this psycho has planned for me next. I figure at this point I'm alive and relatively unharmed. Distracting him will likely keep me in this state of being longer.

The man smiles pityingly. "You've not been keeping up with the news, have you? They're getting closer to figuring out the Underground Kidnapper. Thanks to your boyfriend and his pet detective, my clients might be encountering a few lawsuits, which we can't have. Not when I've been paid to prevent such things."

"They're just doing their jobs. And I don't know Sherlock," I whisper. "John's never brought me over. I don't – I don't –"

"Even so," the man continues, somewhat cheerily, "You're here, I may as well use you. They don't consider me a true threat, yet. Understandably. We've only just taken a few people, and returned all of them. I have a feeling that if they know the measures we are willing to take, we can ensure their cooperation. And that's why you're here. Sherlock would do anything for his little pet. Including saving his girlfriend from the brink of death."

Clearly this person – and his clients – don't have a very good grasp of the 221B dynamic. Sherlock is not at John's beck and call. With this knowledge resting at the forefront of my mind, I allow the realization that I might very well not make it out of this encounter sink in. All because of Sherlock.

"_Damn him."_

My fists ball up, tightening the zipties binding my wrists painfully. Seeing my wince, the man leans down.

"Does that hurt? Necessarily precautions," he says apologetically. "You know, can't have you running off before Mr. Holmes shows up. We're expecting his reply soon, you see, and in reply we'll need to send another picture of you." He produces his phone, scrolling through a few texts to show me the interactions.

"_Is your John missing something?"_

_"Who is this?"_

_"Someone you're looking for…So, tell me. Is your housepet of a doctor missing anything?_

Sherlock does not reply for ten minutes. In response, my captor sent him a photo of me curled on the floor, passed out. According to the time stamp, it took him another ten minutes to reply.

_"Who are you?"_

_"I believe you already know, Mr. Holmes. I suppose the real question here is will your dear Dr. Watson be wanting his girlfriend back? Because her safety and her return is dependent on you now." _

_"What is it you want?"_

_"Safety, Mr. Holmes. My job is at risk at the moment, due to your prying. I demand you fix it."_

_"Ah. So Meyer Pharmaceuticals is feeling the heat, are they?"_

_ "__Very good, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you'll be as astute when considering the life of Dr. Watson's girlfriend. I would hate to waste such musical talent…have you seen her play? Quite proficient. It would be a waste…We'll be in touch." _

That was the last text sent. Hours ago.

"Meyer Pharmaceuticals." They are a big company, known for their surgical plastics and other medical equipment. I recognize the name from the news. They've had a few lawsuits as of late for faulty equipment – bad steel in their screws, ill-fitting pieces, serious side effects to a few of their drugs, et cetera. "I don't understand."

"And you don't need to," my captor tells me smoothly. "Just know that if your boyfriend's flatmate fails to comply to our orders, well, it won't be a good ending for you. Now, with that melodrama in mind, I must leave you. Have a nice sleep, Viola."

He pushes the box back, then makes to leave. The light goes off before he opens the door. He looks back at me once before he leaves. Then the door is closed. And I am again left to the creaks, rattles, and greyness.

**-XXX-**

A few hours pass. I'm not sure how many. With nothing left to do, I fall in and out of fitful, cold sleep. The noises – coming from the variety of pipes running the length of the walls and ceiling – keep me only in a light doze.

I wake properly when the sound of a bang echoing through the building around me. I am jolted into a state of more-awake. Struggling to sit up, I prop myself against a pipe. It jabs me in the back. But at least now I have a better view of the door.

Another loud noise sounds, closer this time. My legs curl in closer. Is the ginger-man doing this to further intimidate me? This thought instantly makes me feel all the fiercer. I won't submit.

The sound comes again, still closer. It's like someone smacking he flat of their hand against a metal surface. Harsh. Unyielding. Simple, yet effective in making my blood run cold.

The bang hits right at the door to my prison. I have to bite back a small scream. Despite my attempts to muffle the cry, it bursts forth. There is a pause in the noise outside. I shift against the concrete floor. This cannot be good. Bile rises in my throat.

Did Sherlock not comply to their demands? Is this my end? _"Oh God, of course it would be all his fault. Sherlock, the death of me." _After all the precautions – dumping me without a word, Mycroft being generally creepy, the warnings, everything all for naught – and I am to still die. _"This isn't fair." _I can feel a sob welling up in my throat.

Another loud bang. It's upon the door to this room. I whimper, curling into the wall, shuddering.

I am lucky, I suppose, that my captors decided the threat of others hearing me is relatively low. Therefore I can cry without holding back when the time comes. The thought is pathetic in its hopefulness.

There is another pause. Then, with no warning, the door this violently shoved open. A weak light streams in. I shut my eyes, curling into myself further. The sound of heavy footsteps against concrete. _"Oh…."_

"Viola."

My eyes are forced open at the sound of my name. Standing before me, tall, heavily shadowed, is Sherlock.

I let out a half-gasp-half-cry. He immediately drops to crouch before me. His hands go to my face and neck, feeling for pulse, examining. Blue-grey eyes, the color of Arctic ice, examine me swiftly. His mouth is set in a hard line.

"Are you alright?"

I do not answer, simply shake against him. He's here. _Here._ I have not been abandoned. Briefly, he presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes, grateful for the gentle contact. His breath is warm on my cheek. Relief swells within me. My resolve of holding back tears is threatening to break.

"Can you stand?" he whispers.

"I – I think so," I breathe back.

Sherlock stands, gently helping me rise with him. I manage to stay propped up well enough. Not having useable upper limbs is quite troublesome, however. From one of the pockets of the massive wool coat comes a knife. He unceremoniously slices through the zipties. Even in the dim light let in by the hall, I can see angry red indentions on my wrists. I rotate the joints for a few minutes, massaging the redness. Sherlock simply watches.

Once I am stable, he motions for me to follow. We leave the maintenance room at a breakneck pace. I'm struggling to keep up. I would demand that he slow for me, but he seems to have a task in mind. A purpose.

The hallway outside is dank tiled thing with lights running every few meters. It's like a tunnel, of sorts.

"Where are we?" I ask softly.

"Underground. Maintenance tunnel. He didn't take you far."

"We're near the subs?" My mind races. "But…you found him. The Underground Kidnapper. You and John."

"He had an associate," Sherlock says shortly. He's still striding just as fast, not pausing to look back or anything. "We were still looking for him. And then you disappeared."

"But you have him now. Right?"

I'm close enough to look up at him. Sherlock doesn't respond right away.

"We need to hurry. He'll be coming down now."

My eyes widen. "You haven't – he's –"

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavily. "No, of course not. Had to get you out first, didn't I? I wanted to see the look on his face when he realizes he's been beaten – thoroughly."

"Ah, thanks for thinking of me."

He doesn't answer.

**-XXX-**

We continue moving along for about a quarter of an hour. We round a corner to find a set to ascending stairs. A sound from above – footsteps – cause Sherlock to pause. He pushes me back round the corner, against the wall. His arm pins me to the tile. Expression drawn, he listens to the approach of my captor. Then, he abruptly 'rounds the corner. I creep after, staying fairly hidden, holding my breath.

The ginger man slows when he sees the intruder. Instead of cords, he's now dressed in coveralls, a uniform. Clever. He can probably pass through the entire system unnoticed.

"Mr. Holmes," he says in greeting. "I had hoped you'd come. Thank you, this saves me the trouble of disposing of your friend's girlfriend."

Sherlock says nothing. He merely stands his ground, observing silently. My captor nears equally silent.

"You know, I'd imagined you'd be taller," he muses. "Just a smidge. Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose we ought to talk conditions. I am sure you have some idea of what I want."

"What any pharmaceutical company with impending lawsuits would want – you want my silence."

The ginger man sighs. "Mr. Holmes. We didn't _want _to go this route. Threats – they're just messy. You could've taken the money. The Yard wouldn't grief you. Unfortunately, you did not take advantage of our offer so we were driven to take more drastic action. So, I take it you're willing to…compromise?"

Sherlock folds his hands behind his back. "I wish to see her first."

"Viola?" the man asks delicately, making my name very pronounced. "I assure you, she is fine. Unharmed. Perhaps a little confused. And frightened, naturally." He smirks slightly. "She calls for you doctor, Holmes. Weeps his name. I am so glad you decided to take her off of my hands. Couldn't stand another day of it, myself."

He and Sherlock are very close now. Mere feet from one another. And when he says that, implies that I have been pleading for John, Sherlock steps just a bit closer.

"Oh, has she?" he asks, uninterestedly. "Yes, he's quite missed her."

They're circling one another now. A dance of wills.

"I am surprised Dr. Watson did not come with you," the man says conversationally. As though they're chatting over coffees. "I should think he would want to come."

"He doesn't know."

"You didn't tell him?" The brows rise. "You didn't tell him his girlfriend's life was on the line?"

That's when Sherlock strikes. Without warning, he hits the man squarely in the gut. The wind knocked out of him, he gasps, falling back. But Sherlock doesn't let him stay down for long. The man is picked up by his shirt. He struggles, slamming one fist into Sherlock's jaw. The resounding smack of fist-against-flesh makes me cringe. But Sherlock doesn't let go. He takes ahold of the offending limb and twists, following this with another jab in the man's stomach.

On the ground again, the ginger man knock's the consulting detective's feet from out under him. Sherlock stumbles. The Kidnapper takes this opportunity to loop an arm around his rival's neck, pulling back hard. Gagged, it takes Sherlock several minutes to reach behind for enough strength to twist in the Kidnappers arms. They knock skulls. The crack is shiver-worthy.

I think by now Sherlock is done. He's moved on. The fight is dull to him.

With a sharp motion against the neck of the ginger man, he is felled. Sherlock promptly takes advantage of the man's position to push the heel of his shoes into the man's throat. When he struggles against the foot, more pressure is applied. The gargling noise causes me to close my eyes. Eventually, the man learns to lie still.

Sherlock calls me. "Viola."

I slowly move around the corner. On the floor, the redheaded man's eyes bulge unpleasantly. When he spots me the gurgling grows louder, panicked.

"I found her in the maintenance closet," Sherlock informs him. "Rather uncomfortable. Tell me, were aware zipties can cut off circulation when applied too tightly? Too much pressure might very well damage vessels." His eyes flash. "But I'm sure you knew that…so…."

He swoops down, clasping the man's right wrist, delicately as you might lift a lover's. Except, after a moment of feeling for the joints, Sherlock twists the hand sharply. The crack of bones is audible. A shrill sobbing shriek follows. The other hand is taken up as well – the Kidnapper is in too much pain to struggle – and Sherlock quickly and effectively. Both wrists fall floppishly to the floor. Broken.

I muffle my own cry as Sherlock rounds on me. He pauses upon seeing my expression. As always, he's impassive.

One hand extends towards me. I would make to grab it, but my eyes have remained glued to the man withering on the floor, pathetically moaning.

"Viola," Sherlock repeats. Commanding. Beckoning.

I all but stumble forward. He claims my hand. I pull into him, pressing my face to his sternum. At first he's a little stiff. But slowly, he wraps arms around me.

It is all too brief.

"Come." He pulls back. "You need to go home."

He leads me up the stairs. We're sudden at the platform again. I blink, disoriented.

"How –"

But he pushes me along, not answering questions. We ascend up the stairs outside to the street. It's bright – grey, another overcast day in London, but bright nonetheless. I blink back the light, stumbling slightly. I did not expect it to be daytime. Sherlock, with his hand at the small of my back, moves me forward.

There is a black saloon car at the curb. I falter at the sight of it. Sherlock applies pressure to my back, guiding me forward.

The door opens, and I find myself in once again perched uneasily on those buttery leather seats of Mycroft's car. The rude assistant is gone. Instead, Mycroft sits in the front passenger seat. He glances back when Sherlock shuts the door.

"Ms. Carters. Sherlock." He nods. In response, his brother returns the inclination of the head curtly.

I lean into Sherlock heavily. "Why are we riding with Mycroft?" I murmur into his shoulder. He straightens his jacket with a sigh.

"No need to be shy, Ms. Carters. We're all friends. Family, in some cases."

"He's the one who lead me to you," the consulting detective tells me quietly, leaning in so that his breath brushes my forehead. "My homeless network only had a few leads towards you, all of them dead ends. After I received the text, he contacted me."

"Benefits of surveillance," Mycroft drawls. "We knew you were gone almost as soon as those zipties were around your wrists. Speaking of which," He nods to the stripes 'round my wrists. "I would suggest you massage those. You can't be getting much circulation at the moment."

I take up this suggestion. The car starts. A hand goes on my knees. My eyes are being to feel heavy.

"What happened to her captor?" Mycroft asks. He's facing the windshield now. It's undignified, I suppose, to be turned in a car seat.

Sherlock doesn't answer for almost a minute. "He's been taken care of."

Mycroft acknowledges this with a slow nod. He pulls out his cellphone. He dials, then puts the phone to his ear. After several seconds, he speaks lowly, reciting the location of the platform we have only just left, adding that the man the person on the other end of the line was looking for would have red hair. "Clean up my brother mess, please."

It's a menacing line.

No one speaks for the remainder of the ride.

As our journey progresses, my eye get heavier and heavier. I pull my legs up onto the upholstery (much to Mycroft's vexation). As the world outside passes at twenty miles an hour, I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

**-XXX-**

**Super long chapter. Hope you guys liked it! **

**Questions, comments, concerns, I answer them eventually! **


	21. Chapter 21

**Silhouettes Chapter 21 **

**Oookay, we're in the final stretch. One more chapter after this, I think. It'd odd to think we'll be so near the end….**

**I'm currently working my way through a Star Trek piece, which might be up later on next week. It's planned out to be around 20 chapters or so. If you're at all a fan of Khan, I'd recommend checking it out. Also, I would like to recommend Let's Pretend We're Drowning by SadieMichelle, and Those Most Dear by With My Radio as really great Khan pieces. Give 'em a go!**

**-XXX-**

It takes me sometime to open my eyes after I wake up. The sheets are lovely and cool against my skin – my mostly bare skin, I note, I'm in nothing but my underwear and bra. I roll over, curling into myself. The pillow I've got half-tucked against my stomach and head is divine.

When I open my eyes, it takes me a few very confused (and slightly panicked) minutes to realize that I am not in my room. Or even my apartment.

The room is open. Airy. I can see light green-patterned wallpaper. A square window with wavy glass dominates the wall opposite of me, framed by creamy brocade curtains. Next to it, adjacent to the door, is a framed poster of the periodic table. I blink at it. It's a very odd choice of bedroom décor.

Beside the white door is another inset with wavy glass. A bathroom. Across the room is a set of shelves, which houses a collection of leather-bound books, a few white plaster busts, pinned insects. The center shelves have their own display lights. Beside this is a skinny lamp with a wide shade. The floors are a golden wood, slightly scuffed.

I absorb all of this, mind still sunken from sleep. Shifting slightly, I feel something…solid behind me. I roll over, curious, to find myself face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

He's lying beside me, eyes closed. I gape silently. _His _room? I am in _his room? _And in his bed, no less.

"Stop," he commands sleepily. I blink.

"What –"

"Stop thinking. You won't find anything. Sleep."

"I can't," I tell him simply.

He sighs, twisting to face upwards. His eyes open, the pupils focusing on the ceiling. I examine his side of the room. A chest of drawers, another shelf of books, a armchair in the corner, a trunk at the end of the best. Over the headboard is a framed paper-thing with a bunch of Asian calligraphy. The script is beautiful.

"My Judo certification," he says, answering the unasked question. Then, quieter, "I studied for three years."

"Oh."

We're quiet. Together we stare at the ceiling. I finally roll towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder. For a few minutes I trace swirling patterns against his pale skin. At the contact, he seems to hold his breath. When I stop, he releases the pent-up air, closing his eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I didn't think you'd want to be alone."

Silence falls between us again. But something doesn't sit right with me. I poke him lightly.

"This doesn't make sense. You all but exile me, and the moment I'm kidnapped your personally look me up. You go to your brother, of all people. You find me, and then bring me here?"

He lets out a breath. "Can we not sleep?"

I raise my brows. "I can't, I told you."

Sherlock makes groaning noise in the back of his throat. He rolls, and suddenly I find myself being flipped onto my other side. With a squeak, I scramble for balance. Sherlock ignores me. In a matter of seconds, we are positioned, my rump against his crouch, my back to his chest, his arms running down the length of mine, locked in a backwards embrace. His breath tickles my neck, face pressed into my hair (which, having not had a shower in at least two days, is probably not at it's best state) between the place where my neck and shoulder meet.

Spooning. We're spooning.

I freeze. This is a very un-Sherlock-thing to do.

"What," I begin slowly. "Are you doing?"

"Sleeping," he murmurs, voice muffled by my hair. "As you should be."

"You don't sleep," I remind him.

A sigh. "Once in a very long time, when I have been particularly stressed, I partake of a rest. This would be one of those times."

"You've been stressed."

"At the moment, a bit, yeah," he seethes. But I'm too preoccupied to mind.

"Over me?"

He is silent. I fear perhaps he's go through with his threat to fall asleep, then -

"Mayhaps."

I smile. He cannot see it, but I suspect he can feel it, just as I can feel his. I lean into him.

"You still haven't told me why you brought me here. And why I'm in your bed. I thought I was supposed to be Dr. Watson's girlfriend?"

His grip on me tightens briefly. "I should hope not," he murmurs. "That would mean he's two-timing…Anna, or whatever her name is. Helen, Zoe, whichever this one is."

But he doesn't elaborate on my question. I wait, then is shift against him. "Sherlock?"

There is a growl. "Woman, I am trying to sleep."

"We've been here for hours," I interject. "Since yesterday afternoon to…well, I think it's morning."

"Eleven-thirty-four."

"So, over twelve hours."

He is quiet. "I wasn't asleep all of that time."

"What were you doing?"

"Reading. Watching you. Taking on a few cases."

"You left?"

He snorts. "I hardly have to leave this apartment to do my work. Most everything can be solved with a few witness accounts and basic deductions."

"Show-off," I grumble. He bumps me teasingly. "Will you tell me why I am here?"

"I told you I didn't think you would want to be alone."

"But that doesn't explain why you decided you had to be the one to leave me in not-alone-ness. And to sleep with me, no less. Why not just prop me up on your couch?"

Silence reigns for several minutes. I wait, squeezing his forearms, the ones wrapped around me.

"It was my duty to ensure your safety," he says finally. "You went through a traumatic experience as a result of my negligence. My attempts at keeping you safe at an arms distance only endangered you further."

_"I'll say," _I think. But instead of saying anything too snide, I continue drawing patterns against his skin. Breath tickles my neck as Sherlock observe my fingers, playing against his pale flesh.

"So…can I know why I was selected as the kidnappee in this situation?"

He sighs. "You could not have possibly deducted, have you?"

I jab his stomach with my elbow. A soft _"umpf" _sounds in my ear. Sherlock shifts to sit up. I choose to prop myself up with a pillow.

"Two years ago," he begins grandly. "Victor Reer, Sharon Yu, Charlene Elis, Christopher Fitzpatrick, and several other dozen people across the continent, received an experimental surgeries in repairing bone fractures. The plastic compound was a new, experimental product by Meyer Pharmaceuticals. This autumn, it was discovered that most patients who received the new plastics were rejecting them – two years after the fact –"

"Lawsuits," I say abruptly. "They were scared of lawsuits."

Sherlock raises a brow, as if my interruption were an offense. I settle back.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, they were terrified of the legal troubles. So, instead of releasing any kind of public statement, they turn to a more under-the-table method of taking care of their problem. They kidnapped all of the patients, one at a time, to preform replacement microsurgeries. Which is how our victims all returned seemingly unharmed – they'd had very, very small incisions, and little else inflicted upon them. Leaving police baffled, and their lawyers without trial."

"But then –"

"But then," Sherlock picks up loudly. "We found one of the group that goes under the name of the Underground Kidnapper and brought them in. John and I, of course, suspected what was occurring. We were simply attempting to prove it when I received the text telling me that you had been taken."

"How could you have known?" I ask eagerly. "If there weren't any visible incision?"

"Not-quite visible," Sherlock corrects. "In interviewing one of the victims, John noticed an odd cut on their elbow. He recognized it as surgical, which had not occurred to me before. From there we narrowed our sights on medical companies, trying to find a connection between victims. All lines led straight to Meyer's. We were inches away from our break when I got that picture of you."

I cringe at the memory. Briefly, Sherlock's hand finds my forearm. He squeezes. "They were foolish to think I would not come for you."

"I don't think anyone could expect you to go all _Taken _on your flatmate's girlfriend," I say dryly.

At this I am again positioned against my will, pulled onto Sherlock's chest. He doesn't speak, but simply holds me there. After several minutes I fear that he has fallen asleep. I rest my chin against his sternum, lifting it from a position above his lungs. He is not sleeping, but watching me with a far-away look in his clear eyes, half-lidded.

I take this moment to consider him. To consider why, after disappearing from my life, then snubbing me when he waltzed back in, Sherlock had been so quick to sweep me away from danger and back into his arms. Seeing as I hardly know why he departed from Sussex in the first place, I doubt I will every truly understand what compels Sherlock Holmes.

"You're wondering why I left."

This is said in a seemingly casual manner, yet there are undertones of carefulness there. He's speaking with the delicacy one displays when holding a crystal bird, or some other grandmotherly fragile object.

"Of course I am."

He regards me. "I was needed."

"Needed?"

"My services required," he elaborates. "Things were steadily becoming safer for me – the associates of my rival Moriarty were disappearing, slinking back to the shadows. It was safe again – relatively speak – for me to return to my old life. And, as I told you, I still feared for yours. It was not my place to affect you, Viola. You had plans. I did not wish to sway them so that you might follow me. You're young."

"So are you."

His smile is tight. "Not the same kind of young. It was a ego-centric notation."

"If you could be described in one word, it would be 'ego-centric," I tell him.

"Was I right?" he asks curiously. "Would you have followed?"

I think, looking to the ceiling while I mull the outcomes about in my mind. "I think," I say. "I would have at least stayed in the country."

This pleases him. But I don't let him bask long.

"But that doesn't mean you're forgiven," I warn. "I don't fully understand any of your motivations, and I'm still utterly upset with you leaving without a word, plus that whole fiasco at my work."

"All done for you safety," he argues. "If I'm planning on keeping you around, I should hope you might still be…around. I had to take measures to ensure such."

I frown. "You're planning on 'keeping me?' What, is that your way of saying you're fond of me?"

He doesn't answer, but grunts. We shift again, back to a spooning position. Soon I am matching his breath as his fingers paint lazy circles against my ribs. Somewhere between sleep and awake, a thought occurs to me. With a leaden tongue, I manage, "How long was I down there?"

"Two and a half days," Sherlock replies quietly. Then, even quieter, so faint I barely make it out, "I'm sorry. "

**-XXX-**

**I cannot even express how much time and google searches it took to properly describe Sherlock's room. There is still a lot that's been left to my imagination, but hopefully I have painted it with relative accuracy.**

**A few questions ought to be cleared up here, but we are by no means done. After all, there is the question of Irene, along with the real reasons behind the kidnappings! **

**Hope you're enjoyed!**

**I must apologize for my lack of response to all of your lovely reviews. I shall endeavor to reply sometime this week to the most recent lot. Know that I do appreciate all of your feedback. You are lovely.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Silhouettes Chapter 22**

**-XXX-**

The afternoon finds me tentatively stepping out of the bedroom to creep down the stairs. I woke to an empty bed – panicked – but quickly calm when I gather my surroundings. Feeling hungry, I slip from the sheets, crossing to the chest of drawers. A bit of rummaging finds me a pair of pajama pants that look loose enough to fit over my hips. While pulling them on, I spot the grey heather sweats with CAMBRIDGE emblazoned on the thigh. I stoop to touch them, remembering the night I first saw them. It feels years and years away

Though it's dirty, I pluck my camisole from the pile in the nearby chair. Once dressed, I move from the room. At the top of the stairs I can hear the rustle of papers, clicking of keys. The noises do not tell me, who, exactly, is down there. Very slowly, I continue down.

John sits in the air chair nearest the fire, his back to me. I take the last step, wincing when my weight against the stairs makes an unpleasant _creeeeeeak! _John turns back. He's automatically flustered – probably because I'm in something like pajamas.

"Viola!" He rises to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. "I –"

"Sit down, John, you look like a confused cod," comes a lazy voice from beside the window. Sherlock sits at a laptop – possibly his, probably John's – typing rapidly. I blink back the afternoon light until he comes into focus.

Embarrassed, John sits again, but first he gestures for me to sit. "Are you alright," he asks, concerned, peering into my face after I sink onto the couch. I curl up, legs tucked beneath me. Of course, before I can answer, Sherlock replies for me.

"She is adequate. Hungry, but safe, aside from that. Have Ms. Hudson fetch her some tea."

"Tea doesn't feed a person," John scolds. "I'll make her a sandwich. Come to the kitchen, Vi, we'll get you fed -"

"Stay," Sherlock says almost automatically. John and I look at him. He doesn't even glance up from the screen. John rolls his eyes, then proceeds to the kitchen. From behind the laptop, I see the consulting detective bite back a smug smile.

**-XXX-**

"It was the wine glass," Sherlock informs me matter-of-factly.

Waking from my doze before the TV, I lift my head. "Huh?"

Since my late lunch/dinner, I hadn't really moved from my spot on the couch. It's now about eleven. John has gone to bed. Earlier, I made to go home, but John told me to stay for another night. I was hesitant, but Sherlock grunted his agreement, so I stayed.

He doesn't repeat himself. With a sigh, I sit up, "What?"

"The angry customer who threw wine on your piano, causing you to be late, leading you to take the train. It was the wine."

I stare. "Oh. Yeah. I just thought –"

"There is no such thing as coincidence."

I purse my lips. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Silence reigns again. I fall back into my doze, watching the figures move across the screen. Despite the amount of sleep I've gotten over the last two days, weariness won't allow me to truly register what occurs on the screen. I don't know how much time passes, but I find Sherlock suddenly standing before me. In the darkness, his face is heavily shadowed.

"Come to bed."

"You going?" I ask sleepily.

He gives me a look. I unfold myself carefully, rising on heavy limbs, taking the arm he has not offered to steady myself.

"What else could you be doing? "

"Case," he says simply.

I haven't removed my hand from his arm. With a tug, I lead him towards the stairs. "C'mon."

"I have work."

"I can't sleep without you," I tell him bluntly. One of his brows rises. "Oh, come on. You need rest, too. You're a skeleton," I complain, gesturing to him. "You weren't like this in Sussex. C'mon."

And, to my surprise, he follows.

Before getting into bed, I remove the pajama pants I've borrowed. Sherlock watches as the green-and-blue plaid puddles on the floor. I crawl into bed. We are not quite together, touching, but there is an element of comfort in the manner in which we lay. The cool sheets whisper against my skin as I shift to roll towards him. He's gazing up as the ceiling, paying me no mind, eyes flickering with great interest. I watch him until my eyes begin to drift shut lazily. When I'm nearly completely asleep, Sherlock moves me against his chest. From there I fall into an almost-dreamless sleep.

**-XXX-**

My dreams are slow, lazy things, consisting of dark colors and deep music. I wake recalling little, which is fine by me.

The bed is empty again, but I don't think anything of it. What currently occupies me is the knowledge that I really ought to go home today. To get clothes, if anything. Though, I feel it is time to get out of the hair of those occupying 221b Baker Street. Not that anyone has made me feel anything less than welcome. John is positively wonderful, and Sherlock simply treats me as a fixture – something that has always been there, nothing of particular interest.

With a heavy sigh, I turn to my clothes, still piled in the chair. The sweater I'd been wearing that night, my charcoal slacks, and camisole all lay, carelessly toss upon the leather. They're not particularly clean, but, being the best option I've got (I am in no way planning on hailing a cab in Sherlock's sweatpants and a stolen dress shirt) I slip them on. While not being especially dirty, the feeling of already-worn clothes, smelling of sweat and a subway maintenance room, give me a gross sort of feeling. I ignore it.

I wash up in the bathroom. Swiping a bit of Sherlock's deodorant leaves me feeling less guilty and more appalled, because I swore I'd never be one of _those girls_. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I do hold off on brushing my teeth in favor of mouth wash, three full cuplets of it. I wash my face, removing the remnants of makeup that had somehow survived the last four days. With that, I slip on my shoes, toss on my jacket, and make for the stairs.

The downstairs is empty. Neither John nor Sherlock are to be found. I'm not the least bit disappointed; this shall make things easier. I briefly consider leaving a note, but decide I'll simply text John when I'm back home, so that they will definitely know I made it.

I make my way down the two flights, pausing before I pass Mrs. Hudson's door. I hear the canned laughter of a telly audience. She's occupied, hopefully too occupied to keep me.

The outside world is overcast, unfamiliar, and loud. Baker Street isn't exactly a bustling center of culture, but it does have a lot of activity. I blink back mist – it's almost-raining, per usual – and step onto the stoop.

I see the stream of thin smoke before I spot its owner.

"You're up late," a quiet voice observes. I jump.

Sherlock stands beside the door to his flat, a smoldering cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger. He's dressed in his usual heavy woolen coat and navy scarf. Observing me with cool eyes, he takes a drag of the small white stick.

"You don't smoke," I say dumbly, frowning.

He merely looks at me.

Feeling compelled to speak, I stutter. "I'm going home. To, like, change and stuff. And I've got to email all of my professors. And my work – " I wince at the thought of explaining myself to Harry. Who knows what kind of bind Pinstripes has been in over the last several days, being without their pianist?

"It's been taken care of for you."

"What? How?" A terrifying thought occurs to me. "Oh God, you didn't call my professors, did you?"

"Hardly. My brother," he says with only a hint of distaste. "Was kind enough to inform everyone that needed informing. I believe you will return home to find several emails of lecture notes. It is lucky you are studious enough that your music teachers don't mind you missing a few practices. As for your place of employment, Harry was more than understanding. They've been fine without you. You've been granted two more days off, if you so wish."

"I don't wish. I just want things to go back to normal."

His brows rise, but he does not comment.

"I don't understand how Mycroft could have persuaded everyone –"

"Seeing as your face has graced the front pages of several papers, it was not hard."

"What?!"

Readied for this, Sherlock offers me his phone. It's a set on the page of a popular paper. He flicks his finger, showing me another news source. And another. And another.

My name and face are on the homepages of four major London papers. _"Final Victim Rescued. Kidnapping Gang Brought to Justice. Meyer Pharmaceutical to Face the Courts."_

"Oh my God." I lean against the white-grey brick of 221. "Oh my God, when my father sees this…."

"_Dad. Shit." _This thought has me scrambling for my cellphone, tucked deep within the pocket of my coat. It's dead, of course, but I press the power button anyways. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon….."

Nosuch luck. It's dead. I groan, imagining the heap of anxious texts, missed calls, voicemails, and emails that await me.

"I take it no one thought to contact my dad?"

Sherlock responds in the negative. "He likely didn't even know until after the fact. Come. It's about to rain."

He pushes himself away from the building, dropping his cigarette and stomping into the sidewalk before stepping forward to hail a cab. One swiftly pulls up to the curb (far more quickly than I've ever had a car come to my beck and call, but then again, I don't have nearly as much presence as Sherlock Holmes). The door is opened. I slide in, then turn to say goodbye, only to find the consulting detective has followed me inside.

"Are you coming?" I ask, surprised.

"Yes," he says shortly. And that's the end of that.

**-XXX-**

** It's been forever! I know! You can hate me! **

** I just moved up to uni. The process has been tough. Plus, I'm only up here so early because I am helping other people move in so…yeah.**

** This is not the last chapter. I cut it off early so you guys could get something. Again, I apologize for the lateness. I have not abandoned Silhouettes. I'll be back again soon…maybe. **


	23. Chapter 23

**It's hard to believe we've reached the end. What started in May as a rough one-shot has transformed into this monster of a piece. I'm still a little surprised. **

**This is it guys. Thanks so much to all of my readers, especially you who have stuck with me from the start. I hope this is the ending you've been waiting for. **

**-XXX-**

I shower and change while Sherlock occupies himself in my small living/dining room with his cell phone. Of course, he's probably poking about, as well, but I choose to ignore this assumption in favor of focusing on a hot, long, relaxing shower. Let him wait.

My cellphone goes straight to the charger, though I don't turn it on. I'm not quite ready to call Dad.

As the water falls over my skin, I consider the events of the last week. So many twists and turns, it's a wonder I'm not babbling with madness, or at least in some mild form of shock. My head is still spinning, true, but I am relatively clear-minded. If anything, I feel like I'm little more than an observer to a fascinating show. With, naturally, Sherlock as the star. I smile to myself. That's much more preferable, anyways. Still, I suppose it was my face in the papers…this reminder leads me to shudder. They won't let me live this down at work.

Once I emerge, squeaky clean and feeling positively fresh, Sherlock announces that we're going to lunch.

I glance down at my sweat pants and hoodie, then announce that I'm going to change. The detective purses his lips. Without invitation, he follows me into my bedroom.

"Privacy would be appreciated," I hint pointedly.

He ignores me – _"Of course." _ - in favor of examining my bedside table. I groan, flopping on my mattress.

"Please, please stop deducting and let me get dressed."

"I've already seen all of you."

I blush at his bluntness. "That doesn't mean I want you ogling while I change," I hiss fiercely. "Get. Out."

He meets my eyes slowly. Then, after a beat, he sits on the mattress next to me. Grumbling, I stand up, crossing to my chest of drawers.

After selecting jeans, cardigan, and an appropriate blouse, I change into a robe in the bathroom, then leave the door propped open so that I might keep an eye on my desk. He's currently texting, though I suspect he's far less occupied than he appears. I dry my hair quickly, then secure it into a messy-ish sort of bun thing. My hair has gotten quite long since the spring. While I appreciate the low-maintenance qualities of long hair, I am consider shearing it. I consider this as I pin back several loose strands. A few pats of foundation clean up my sallow complexion. I opt for a little mascara, but that's about it for the day.

When I return to select a more appropriate bra – alas, sports bras do not work with every outfit – I find myself somewhat cornered. When I rise from kneeling before the last drawer of my chest, I fall against the consulting detective, who has seemingly followed me.

"Um," I say. "Sherlock?"

He doesn't reply. For a brief second he is merely staring, and in a flash he's pulled me against him and is doing battle with my mouth.

Stunned, I stand frozen while his lips cling to mine. It would almost be awkward if it weren't for my slowly warming blood. Still, I do little more than lean into him at first. Disgruntled, the detective pulls back to frown. When I still don't make any moves to participate, he starts on my neck and jaw. This garners this desired reaction, and I curl my fists into his shirt.

Despite being entirely unexpected, to have him against me again feels terribly nice. I shudder into his touch. My shock ebbs away. All I want to do is feel.

The collar of my robe is pushed down, revealing a shoulder. This is soon followed by open-mouthed kisses. One good thing about being sexually involved with someone who does so much deduction is that they can easily and swiftly predict what will send you over the edge. Which is probably how the folds of the robe I'm wearing are pushed aside to allow for nimble fingers against the waistband of my panties. They teasingly skim my stomach. Then move upwards to cup one breast, stroking with painful slowness. I let my breath settle in something like a sigh. Lips trail down to rest between my breasts, then, slowly, set about lavishing my nipples. One hand has moved down to that moist place between my thighs, rubbing small circles against the fabric of my underwear. The friction makes me whimper, then gasp when those fingers push aside the cotton to touch that most sensitive place. A finger dips into me. Then another. I arch and gasp as they remove themselves, then plunge back in. His palm continues to tease my clit. I'm being backed into the bed. As I sink into the mattress, I pull him with me.

**-XXX-**

Eventually I call Dad. The majority of the call is spent listening to him lecture and cry. I reassure him that I'm perfectly alright, that everything was handled by law enforcement. I don't mention Sherlock. I suspect later papers might mention him – the word will get out soon enough, it was his case – but I won't be the one to bring the subject up. After a half-hour, I end the call, promising I'll send a few texts and emails.

About an hour later, we've sat down to lunch at some small Italian bistro. The owner apparently owes Sherlock a favor, so we get extra breadsticks. I hardly think saving someone's mother's life merits simply breadsticks, but Sherlock is unbothered by this. He picks at the dough, crumbling bits onto the tablecloth. I am suddenly reminded of my own mother, and a question wells up in my throat.

"My mother…."

He stills instantly. Impassive, Sherlock examines my face carefully. "Yes?"

"You knew her." It is not a question.

There is a hesitation before he answers, though his face doesn't show it. "Yes."

I wait for more. When I realize nothing else is coming, I prod gently for more. "How?" I prompt him.

His jaws lock. He doesn't want to tell me. But I wait.

"There was a case. Mycroft called me. It was very hush-hush. She had in her possession something that could be…detrimental…to certain members of royalty. And my brother's people wanted it. But they weren't willing or able to do the dirty work themselves. I was employed to remove the material from her possession."

Here he pauses.

"And did you?"

A slight smirk graces his lips. "Naturally." But there is a hint of something less amused in his eyes. "After a time. She has been one of the few people to provide a true, knowledgeable challenge to me. It took me nearly six months."

He quiets again. We sit together, each lost in our own worlds of musings. So far, all that John had told me is matching up with Sherlock's tale. But I am not quite satisfied.

"You…and her…." I struggle to get the words out. "There were….feelings between you?"

The look I am cast is very sharp. I simple gaze back, pleading slightly.

"We were little more than two people playing a game," he says quietly. "And part of that game might have included flirtations and sentimentality on her part. But I was nothing more than focused on my goal. It was her attachment that was ultimately her downfall."

Here I do not inquire further. I look away.

"She was an admirable opponent." He allows this in a low voice.

"Did you know I was her daughter?"

"Not until you told me," he says dryly. "I thought it was some kind of a trick. Just a coincidence. Or my own personal hell."

I balk at this. He sighs.

"I merely meant that things between your mother and myself had ended badly. I almost wondered if she had deposited you in my lap herself as some kind of a joke. But that was not possible."

"You speak as though she is still alive," I complain.

He is silent. One brow rises. I stare.

"But no – she died. I saw the plot. I've got inheritance. She's gone."

Sherlock looks out the window. "She is gone," he agrees. "But not – _gone." _

Horrified, I can do nothing but gape, mouth open like some kind of stunned fish. When I don't speak, Sherlock gives me a scathing glance.

"Keep that up and your face shall freeze that way," he scolds carelessly.

"That's a wives's tale," I reply faintly.

"Something my mother always assured me would happen if I forgot my civility. I'm sure yours would have surely done the same." At my even more horrified expression, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, do, calm down."

"She's alive?" I whisper.

"And well."

"But –"

"Viola." He's serious. "She's alive. Hidden away. But alive."

"How do you know?"

"Because I was the one to saved her."

He won't tell me too much more, only that my mother will likely never be back on the continent, that I will never see me again, and that she wanted to say goodbye, but it simply was not possible. I ask if they've been in contact. He answers with a firm _"no." _That's about all I get from him.

I sit, stunned, while Sherlock picks at his pasta. I do not quite know how to react. What is there to say?

I want to get away. Part of me wants to just walk away. Stand up. Walk out, call a cab. _Get away. _I don't want to see him. My mother is alive and far from me.

After several minutes of sitting in silence, Sherlock examines me. "Viola. What are you thinking?"

I glance up sharply. "I thought you could see what I'm thinking. I thought it was all bare to you."

His face doesn't even flicker. "That's not how it works."

"But regardless, you're definitely perceptive. Then tell me," I say lowly. "What do you think I'm feeling?"

"You're unhappy," he states. "She's not gone, she didn't seek you out, and the person you currently engaged with in a romantic fashion just reveled this to you. It likely rings of something like betrayal – or, at least, has shaken your trust in me. You've been struck. I would suspect you to be in some form of distress at the moment."

I don't answer. I _can't _answer. He's hit the nail on the head. Again, I feel the impulse to get away, to remove myself from underneath the icy eyes that are now scanning my face. Instead, I lift my fork, scooping up a bite of my pasta, forcing myself to eat. It tastes like glue. Several seconds pass before I manage to shove it down my esophagus. All the while I stare out the window.

The city moves on. People bundled up against the chill pass by the restaurant, hurrying to escape the cold, each in a brisk stride. I see mists of frost escape the mouths of those who have only just stepped out to face the cold. Taxis wiz through the crowded street. A few leaves flicker overhead, drifting slowly in a descent that will seal the end of their cycle. The city has moved on without me in my accidental absence, as cities do.

It strikes me then that had this occurred in Sussex, I'd be stopped by everyone I encountered, questioned, and otherwise harassed for my experience. Here, no one cares. Someone might place me, note my face and vaguely recognize it, but so far, not a single soul has approached me. And that's a relief. I don't want to be known as the "Woman-Who-Was-Kidnapped" anymore than I wish to be known for being _"Irene's_ Daughter." That's one thing I've really loved about the city. Yeah, you might get your marks – "Piano Girl" at Pinstripes, and "Sherlock's Girlfriend" among those in government – but they're only in certain groups. They're only temporary. In my hometown, I'll never not be known for being a flighty woman's daughter. Which is, at some points, a comfort. But mostly, it's a pain.

"You're right. You're better at reading people's emotions than you give yourself credit for."

For once, Sherlock does not appear smug about this. "It's all logic, Viola."

"Why," I ask slowly, struggling. "Did you lie before? Why did you say you didn't know her?"

"Because the woman who you knew as a mother and the woman I chased are hardly one and the same."

He has a point.

Sherlock leans back. "I wanted to tell you. When the time was appropriate. John had no idea, of course. You look very much like her, however, not so much as to lead him to suspect. You must forgive me, Viola."

There's no apology – but then again, he doesn't really need to give one. We're all just victims of circumstance.

I don't speak for the rest of the meal.

**-XXX-**

Later, we return to my flat. I didn't exactly invite Sherlock to tag along, but I didn't straight-out protest when he joined me. When we get inside I immediately remove my shoes, cross to the couch, and sink into it with a slight sound of relief. This is normalcy. My couch, my apartment, the traffic noises outside, the silence indoors –

" Have you any tea?"

- Well, not _quite _normalcy. Sherlock is here, poking about my kitchen. I scowl as I watch him rummage through cupboards.

"Of course," I answer crossly. "Top left. There's a tin. Kettle is on the stove. I'll be surprised to see if you can use it."

He doesn't immediately respond to my jab. After filling the kettle and setting the stove, he finds a pair of mugs, then leans against the counter as he waits for it to boil. All of his motions are very mechanical, and I observe in fascination. It is as though he's made tea ten million times, though I know this cannot be true. The man imposes the task upon all those around him. He's probably picked up the habitual-styled motions through seeing so many others.

"How long are you going to be cross with me?" he asks quietly. I raise a brow.

"Caught on to that, have you?"

He ignores the question. "I've been honest with you."

"You have," I acknowledge. "Recently."

"I could not very well have told you that in the beginning. You know why." His expression is very intense, as though he is channeling all of his understanding into me. "Being angry will change nothing. It will just serve to frustrate us both."

I am surprised he's noticed. But I'm even more taken aback but the fact that he's admitting to being frustrated. The idea that my feelings could affect his in such a manner is news to me.

"I'm sorry," I say honestly. "It's just a lot to take in, you know. I mean, aside from the whole running-off-without-a-word and then getting-me-kidnapped, this is a bit of a game changer. You've got to understand I feel conflicted."

His intent expression has not altered. "Do you trust me?"

Before I can answer the kettle screams. He turns swiftly to shut the heat off. When he returns, he bears two mugs. I accept my, musing over his question. Sherlock waits.

"Yes. Of course."

His lips purse. "Then why do you feel conflicted?"

"Because it's my mother….my living mother, who I thought was dead, who had a thing with you! Part of me wants to run for the hills, to escape this soap opera that is your life. But I can't just do that. I've got a good thing going here. I just got out of twenty years of utter boredom. You're exciting, the city is exciting, and I don't _want _to leave. But all of that – what was already between us, then I get kidnapped, and now my mother – is a little much."

"What do you want?"

I open my mouth, hesitating. I could tell him to get out. I could say that I want him to exit my life entirely. Yet, watching him now, I don't see much more than curiosity alighting his strange eyes. He's no longer a silhouette, I note. Here he sits, more than a half-person in the dim light of the evening. I don't know if I can attribute this change to myself or the London atmosphere. All I know is that this is the person I could only half-see in the haze of tragedy back in Sussex. This is Sherlock Holmes.

And I think, how could I miss this? Miss out on seeing the person that only just glimmered through Benjamin Holly?

"I want to figure this out," I say finally. "I want to understand you a little bit more. We started out on an odd footing. And it only got more and more unsteady as time went on. So…."

He waits as I struggle to find words.

"Let's start again," I offer feebly. "I know it's a huge cliché in RomComs, but it's the best I've got. I'm not quite ready to give up. Is that fair?"

"More than fair."

"I don't know if we'll get through," I warn. "I mean, this could all go to shit."

"Yes," he agrees simply.

**-XXX-**

I wake to find him standing in the window. The moon is peeking out from behind my sheer cream curtains, its light generous streaming in to the room. Cast in shadow, I can make out his striking outline against the white. Fingers steepled, head bowed, he gazes straight into the night. I'm reminded of the first time we encountered one another – the small front parlor of that cottage, firelight flickering to create a strong silhouette. _"A half-person." _

Sleepily, I watch Sherlock for a few seconds before calling softly. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"Mmmmh. C'mere."

He joins me on the mattress. I roll into the pillow as one arm scoops around me.

"S'okay?"

"Yes," he answers. Light fingers play along the fine hairs of my neck. I drift off again, only to wake a few minutes later when his weight shifts from the bed. He has moved back to the window to stare pensively into the glass. This time, I follow. Rising lightly, I cross on my toes to stand before him, silent.

"You're worried," he states soundly.

"Sherlock?" He doesn't answer. "I should think you're the one who is troubled. What's going on inside that head of yours?"

Several seconds pass before he moves. His shoulder gently brushes mine. "It is my mind," he murmurs. "It cannot be quieted."

"You're bored," I clarify.

A slight smile purses his lips. "Indeed."

"Do you need to go?"

He grunts. "No," he allows after a moment.

"Alright," I say simply.

So we stand, silently gazing out into the glassy darkness of the city. Two silhouettes, lingering against the night. Not quite half-people – but lives working their way towards wholeness.

**-XXX-**

**This conclusion feels a little awkward to me, but it's what came out. I would've originally tacked it on to the last chapter, but things were getting a little long there, so you got an extra chapter from the deal.**

**Thank you so much for following me in this. I apologize again for the tardiness of the last couple of chapters, but my life has been stupidly hectic. I have really appreciated all of the lovely feedback and follows. If you have any questions or comments I shall answer them, pinky promise, if they're answerable. **

**And finally, if you're into Star Trek or Labyrinth, I have two new pieces that shall be coming out within the month, so please feel free to give me a follow or browse and of my other work.**

**Again, all of my thanks!**


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